Siege of Gods
by Nia Irial
Summary: In a world governed by the gods of old, humanity is little more than a play thing in a game much larger than itself. The magic-hating Sacred Order is bent on snuffing out every unnatural 'heretic' they come across while the Gifted of the Dark Goddess constantly seeks more power. What neither group realizes is that destruction is fast coming and it does not discriminate.
1. Prologue

"Arren."

He smelled burning flesh. Or perhaps he simply believed he did. He couldn't much tell reality from delusion these days.

"Arren, awaken."

For instance, that voice commanding him to wake up? No idea if it was just in his head.

There was smoke and screaming. It had to be a dream, now of that he was almost certain, or rather a memory incorporated into one. His family.

Arren never thought of them, but now with the sweat collecting on his back and his blankets tight around him like a noose, it was impossible not to. The next image came to him unbidden. Issa's young face, contorted and blistered - dead.

"RISE OR PERISH."

The flames licked around him, his eyes shooting open, and Arren knew the voice. It WAS in his head and he was wrong - this was no dream.

The cavern was filled with smoke but through it, he could make out the shapes of the others, just moments earlier peaceful in sleep, flailing with their bodies set ablaze. Without checking he knew he too was burning, he could feel the familiar sear of it, and it felt like a betrayal.

His brethren were dying and Arren laughed from deep in his chest, tears glittering in his eyes, tears caused by the flame only.

They strode in through the fire, illuminated in righteous glory with those wicked weapons drawn, expecting a fight even after a slaughter. Arren commended them for it even as their shining sun seal became all he could see.

"You will live…" the voice breathed, and he understood it was not a comfort, it was an order. A short time ago, following it through would have been unbearable.

"Yes, mistress." He whispered, and then he collapsed from the pain.

* * *

I see the looks on your innocent faces. You're wondering what hell is going on, amirite?

A religious war, basically. History time (I made this all up, btw).

From the dawn of time, the world has been "governed" by a pantheon of gods and goddesses, who are as follows:

\- Utione, god of the rich, the known, and those who wish to be so.

\- Naltia, goddess of the innocent, the broken, and the needy.

\- Mortabela, goddess of the forsaken, the usurpers, and the dark of heart.

\- Bahar, god of the wild, the water, and the winds.

\- Lux, goddess of the true, the victorious, and the holy.

\- Oberis, god of the dead, the lost, and all in-betweens.

Throughout the years, all of the gods have waged war, but none hate the other more than Lux and Mortabela, enemies from the beginning to the end of time. The animosity was caused by Mortabela "usurping" the natural order of the world by granting her most loyal followers abilities no human should ever have. The cost of these abilities is heinous, further angering Lux, who is sworn to protect against such abominations.

Thus, The Sacred Order of the Hallowed Light was born. These righteous warriors have but one goal: to hunt and destroy those gifted by the dark goddess Mortabela.

In the passage above, you read them at work from the point of view of one such "gifted." However, all is not as it seems. I have withheld information from you, so don't go making assumptions about who is right or wrong - yet.

I created Arren, but he isn't the main character, rather a piece of many of which makes this game work. That's where you guys come in.

Info and form are on my author page for your convenience. If you have questions about anything you read or about creating your character, please please please don't be afraid to ask. I have a lot of hope for this story, but I need your characters first.

 _The Sacred Order of the Hallowed Light needs you! The recruitment form is on the author's profile, along with more information about the lore, the world, and the glorious battle against gifted insurgents. Submit today while you still can!_


	2. And the Flames Leaped up to Greet Them

Guilt is like an insect. In coldness, it withers and dies, but give it only a bit of warmth and you'll find yourself infested. Cressida was absolutely crawling with it - guilt, not insects. The smell of smoke and things so much worse invaded her nostrils, not helping the sensation of sick inside her.

They never even had a chance.

Most of the bodies near her were still steaming, charred and black. Those were the ones she preferred. Bits of hair and snatches of flesh, unburnt, were more disturbing. It's better if you think of them as never having been a person.

She heard it over the crunch of her comrades' boots. The hiss of breathing, the wheezing of someone nearly dead but not quite. Unfortunate, though it was the whole point.

Legate Megalos's orders were clear: bring any survivors to heel.

By the look of this one, there wasn't going to be much heeling needed.

It - he - had crawled toward the back, the sole reason for his survival. His back was to her, quivering with the effort it must have taken to simply stay alive. The breath caught in her throat, she reached forward - someone grabbed her arm.

Cressida whirled, feeling caught, but instead of the snarl of the legate, she was met with concerned green eyes.

"Leon," her voice was hoarse.

"Let me," his tug was gentle, gaze unjudging. He stood tall, unfazed and stoic to the carnage around him. "I can take care of this one."

Leon could. He wasn't like her. He knew his place, didn't question it. To him, orders were orders and death was death, and everything went in a separate, neat little box. It was a source of conflict just as it was an enviable trait; Cressida didn't like it, though she sometimes wished she could be like it.

He gave her one last long look, half pity, half exasperation. "Go outside, get some fresh air."

Cressida shot a glance at the Legate, bronze armor winking in the dancing light of a nearby torch; he was surrounded by junior officers, surveying the blackened cavern but not in her direction. It was doubtful he would even notice her exit. She spared another moment to observe Leon, feeling remorseful, feeling annoyed - he was always a witness to some "weakness'' on her part - and left.

The wind hit her face in a blast both cool and salty as she emerged from the cavern the Gifted had foolishly been using as a hideout. Though they were miles off from the coast, the air here smelled like the sea. It was a balm to her shot nerves.

She typically wasn't like this, but the nightmares had been particularly nasty last night. Again and again, her father's face had shone in agony and defeat as the Order cut him down, the gory scene immortalized in her cruel subconscious. The lesson here was to never skimp on the sleeping drought. She'd have Olwen whip her up some stronger, better stuff.

In that vein, she wasn't the only one who bad things happened to while they slept. Her thoughts rounded back sharply to the Gifted they'd just killed. All burnt up while defenseless...it sickened her to dwell on it. The rational part of her knew they would do the same if the roles were reversed, and they eventually would be, but she was past caring about that. Two parties lashing out in cycles, an angry serpent eating its own tail - it would never end. Death, destruction; ad infinitum.

The ride back to Fortress of Light was brutal. Two days and nothing but rain; oh, but it was the wet season. The hide dusters they'd brought for that reason were no match for the torrential out-pouring of the skies. At least it washed away the smell of well-cooked skin.

Cressida all but tumbled off head-first when her stead stumbled on the slick terrain. Beside her, Leon had the audacity to laugh; he and horses got along quite well. She noted the dappled mare he was on hadn't so much as misplaced a step. He sat in his saddle, posture so relaxed he might have been in an armchair.

"Lux take you, Biaggio."

His face straightened a little at that, the religious sort he was, but his eyes still held a twinkle usually only she could tease out. Water dripped down his nose. "That she will, but keep talking like that; the goddess may turn you away."

She lifted a stiff shoulder. "She may do what she pleases, and I'll do what I may."

Behind them, someone broke line, edging the large black animal carrying them up and around until they were close enough to be recognized.

"It's Killian," Leon managed to warn just when the man himself pulled his horse up beside them. Beside her. His leg bumped hers.

"Biaggio," he greeted first, a slight smile in place. One might assume it was friendly and one would be wrong. His too cheery gaze settled on her. "Cress. Fine weather we're having."

Somehow, Killian was dryer than the rest of them, as if the rain itself didn't want to disturb that golden head of hair, though he was arguably a bigger target than she and Leon. She felt sorry for the equine under him; he was surely a heavy burden.

"That's not my name." She was in no mood.

"Where did you run?" He edged in closer, his horse cutting in a bit ahead of hers. "When the rest of us were clearing out that cursed cavern."

On the other side of her, Leon loosed a tired kind of sigh.

"Double-checking the perimeter." She sniffed, blinking water out of dark lashes.

Killian's white teeth shone even in this dim light. "Oh, good. I was concerned you'd deserted. You'll have to forgive me for thinking that, what with your familial history."

He let that hang there in the air between them. If it had been any other day, a snarky comment would satisfy her, but not this day, not when she was down and hurting and, worst of all, wondering what could have been. Cressida was aware of how little space there was, how easy it would be to turn and wipe that grin off his ignorant face. She could see it - he'd fall from his horse, perhaps be trampled by the others, but Legate Megalos would bear witness as well, and his testimony would be damning. Cressida had no desire to stand before the Avatar.

Again.

So she faced the blond and smiled her sweetest, most poisonous smile, and spat.

Leon groaned, groaned how King Achille Reyx probably groaned every time he looked down from the afterlife and saw what his descendants had done with Agria.

Killian, on the other hand, took it incredibly well, save for blinking a few times. Which was terrifying, if Cressida was being honest with herself. His lack of outrage meant something worse: he was filing this offense away for later, for when there were no Legates around.

Reins switched to one hand, he swiped the other across his cheek, then examined his leather glove with disgust. The saliva was indistinguishable from the rainwater, but he still made a big show of cleaning it off on his pants.

"You really do have a lot of savage in you, don't you?" is what he finally settled on, blue eyes more chilling than the icy droplets slipping down her spine.

She opened her mouth to say something she really shouldn't, but Leon placed a hand on her arm, slowly shaking his head. Let it go, his entire expression seemed to say.

With steely resolve and grit teeth, Cressida turned her gaze away, back straight as a rod.

Killian, seeing he would get no other reaction, snorted with contemptuous amusement and dug his heels into the stallion's flanks, spurring the creature on, cutting them off. Up ahead, he took a place at Legate Megalos's side.

Cressida spent the entirety of the journey to the fortress glaring at the back of his blond head, hoping it would be enough to make it explode. For the first time, she longed for the ability of a Gifted.

* * *

He didn't know they'd returned, the schematics at his nose all he saw, the thoughts in his head all he heard. But Greer, Lux bless her, was apparently loathe to leave it that way.

"Mathias," She thumped him on the back, his glasses slipping from their rightful position, "Listen." Her forehead wrinkled in concentration, ears no doubt straining to hear the return of her friends.

Mathias knew how worried she got when they put themselves in harm's way. Cressida wasn't exactly the most self-preserving type and Leon...well, he would give his life for the Order at a moment's notice. Gods only knew why, but Greer Sayer took it upon herself to be everyone's protector, which, while admirable, Mathias found a little ridiculous. These adventurer types, honestly.

He, not to sound arrogant or condescending at all, wouldn't even be friends with them, except for the fact they'd grown up together. Mathias was the last to arrive in their quaint group, being the youngest at eighteen - a fact Leon would hardly let him forget. He was a mother hen, that one.

Confident there was nothing to be heard, Mathias settled back down to his work, righted his glasses, and promptly let out a squawk when he tipped over an inkpot - Greer, once again, had brought a heavy hand down on his shoulder.

"They're back!"

It was unmistakable. There was the tale-tell neighing of horses and braying of warriors; a success, so it sounded. Greer bounded out the library doors, leaving them swinging, and Mathias smiled to himself. There was satisfaction in quiet victory - he was the one who designed the recipe for the "Living Fire" the Order had been set to use during this excursion. He allowed himself to assume it would become quite the popular requisition.

Deigning a forlorn look to his ruined schematics, thanking Lux and, well, himself that he always kept replacements, Mathias followed the trail of his friend, but not quite adopting her spring-buck gait. The stone corridors gave away to stairs, which gave way to more stone, and then finally to the colossal armored double-doors that functioned as the main entrance into the fortress itself. They were so large and so heavy there was a special mechanism to crank them open, a man on each side to use it. It was not a quick thing, but pragmatism would have it they were open from dawn to dusk, just to make things a little easier. Unwanted guests and invaders were kept out by the equally as large, equally as impressive walls surrounding the fortress, and failing that, by the types of men and women who'd just returned.

He saw them. They were soggy and smelled faintly of smoke, but they were unharmed and smiling. On closer inspection, not all of them.

Cressida dismounted her horse, face stormier than the actual storm, and Leon bore a look of concern - not an unusual occurrence. Greer was there already, handing the reins of both animals off to a stable girl. He ambled to meet them, only to be blazed past by Cressida.

"Do you ever feel bad about it?" She hissed in passing.

Mathias looked as bewildered as he felt. What had he to feel bad about? He wasn't the one gallivanting across all of Ethrias, risking his life dueling with demented mages and whatever nastiness they conjured up - literally.

Leon shook his head. "She's had a rough few days."

Mathias wanted to say "of course, all of them who set a foot out there probably had it rough because the field is hell," but took a calculated guess and figured it was best to let it go.

"What do you think is going on over there?" Greer mused, her features pulled into a familiar expression: of analysis, of scrutiny. It had Mathias curious enough to pivot on his heel, and there he saw it.

Legate Megalos red in the face, a vein bulging in his forehead, being towered over by the foreigner Olwen Jørmund, who, frighteningly, appeared just as angry. They stood next to a horse-drawn cart with a blanket thrown over it, capturing the attention of everyone in the near vicinity.

"You have no honor, Legate Bronte Megalos." Olwen ground out, and though he was without his dreaded war hammer, officers next to them had reached for their swords. Mathias didn't blame them; he wouldn't want that Testroyvan giant breathing down his neck either.

"Says the magic-wielding shaman." Legate Megalos couldn't have forced any more contempt into that one word, "You're one step up from being a cultist of Mortabela, and one step up only."

Olwen paid no mind to the barbs - Mathias suspected the man cared little and less for following the path of Lux, anyhow. Whatever he was upset about, he was sticking to it.

"You burn children while they sleep, and call it a victory." The giant smiled and it was cruel. "I would keep a vigilant watch, Legate Bronte Megalos - the universe has a way of repaying things in kind."

The Legate did something Mathias would never do - took a daring step closer. (It was bit comical, though, just a bit; he was a whole lot shorter, and it was noticeable.

"Are you threatening me, savage?"

"No. I am speaking truth, though for that you care little." With that said, Olwen stomped by the fuming Legate, taking hold of the halter of the horse pulling the cart. From beneath the blanket, a human leg was bared, half the skin white, the other half black - burnt.

As if for the first time noticing his audience, Legate Megalos's dark eyes widened and he bared his teeth. "Back to your posts, or you'll all be whipped for insolence!"

It was the fastest Mathias had ever seen the courtyard clear, and as he himself made haste back to the library, he couldn't quite get the image of the partially burned leg out of his mind's eye.

* * *

 **A/N:**

Characters, in order of appearance:

Cressida Haizea

Leon Biaggio

Killian McFerrin

Mathias Frye

Greer Sayer

Olwen Jørmund

To the creators of the characters above, thank you for submitting them! I'm pleased with my cast and being able to write them. However, if you feel I did a poor job representing your character or if you'd simply like something tweaked, please let me know via PM - and respectfully.

I couldn't have every OC in one chapter - it wouldn't fit in realistically - but if yours wasn't here they will more than likely be in the next one.

Tell me your thoughts!

Do you like having two POVs per chapter? Should I do more? Less?

What do you think of the characters other than your own?

Also, if you couldn't already tell, this story WILL have violence in it - are you okay with bad things (i.e. death, disfigurement, mental scarring, etc.) happening to your OC?

Thanks for reading! Review, if you have the mind, and have a wonderful day. See you next time!


	3. Promise of Destruction

Under her gloves on her palms, there were candy-red crescent moons. Pretty and stinging, Greer had made them herself, tiny trenches in the skin dug with her nails, dug in anger. But she didn't have a right to be angry, not really, and this did nothing to help the fact she was. Right now, she had to swallow it, stomp it, kill it - just be rid of it, before it consumed her. Right now, Greer had to be a good friend.

"Cressida," she began gently, tentatively, "you don't have to do this to yourself." The chill in this stone room, just beneath the ground, was pressing against them, into them, and the body in front of them was turning blue, but it was because of death, not cold.

The two stood in silence, not quite touching but close. Though Cressida was nearly five or four inches taller, she seemed smaller here, with her shoulders tensed, haunched. From her peripheral, Greer took in her face, tanner than her own, freckled, and frightened. From a distance, strangers, those not hailing from the Order for obvious reasons, thought them siblings, and from a distance, Greer could understand: both young, both with thick, dark brown hair, both scarred more deeply than those visible on their skin.

But they weren't the same. Greer was paler, her eyes green like a lost forest. Cressida was bronzed, and her eyes shone against her skin like blue gemstones. Way back when, when Cressida first came to the Order, late and rebellious, a grieving nine-year-old, Greer was smitten - those eyes. But they were older now, and the strangers were nearly right. The girls might as well have been sisters, and sisters got vengeance for each other. The problem was Greer couldn't get any vengeance, not against this foe who hurt her sister - who hurt both of Order had no right - none - to turn someone so innocent into a killer.

"Did Matthias read you the report?" Cressida still didn't lift her gaze. "Did he tell you how successful his little project was?"

Greer shifted her weight from one foot to another. Transversing these situations was difficult, getting increasingly so; she didn't want to have to be the one to draw the lines, to pick sides. Her friends were her family. "I read it myself."

She read all of them, every time, even when she'd been the one out there. And every time, she'd been able to breathe a sigh of relief; Greer, so far, never had cause to take a life. She knew Cressida wasn't so lucky.

Her friend, once again, didn't respond. Instead, she did something Greer absolutely hated. She flipped out and open her little leather-bound book.

"Gods no, not the death book."

Cressida shot her a look from underneath her thick brows. "How else am I supposed to remember them all?"

"You don't." The young boy, very much dead, seemed to be sleeping almost peacefully on the stone slab. She had an urge to reach out and hold his hand. She didn't. "Let Oberis have them and be done with it."

Cressida scribbled down something in the dreadful book.

"You don't even know their names."

"I use descriptions."

"You didn't even kill him."

She slammed the book shut. "I was there, wasn't I? It's the same thing."

Greer's stomach turned at that. She'd killed many, by that logic.

"Kindred," a deep voice rumbled from the shadows behind them. "Fire-Cress."

Cressida whirled, but Greer did not react, except to smile in greeting. She recognized the giant's smoky voice and his nickname for her - they were not kin, but he'd taken to calling her that ever since he learned of her Testroyvan ancestry. And Fire-Cress...well, it was the girl's personality.

"Hello, Olwen." She said mildly.

"Lux's ass." Cressida clutched her book over her heart. "We're going to get you a bell."

Olwen stepped from the shadows, dressed in hides and furs, adorned in a hood with goat horns atop it. That was all the norm, but Greer immediately took note of the black powders smeared around his eyes. Black wasn't a color he usually wore.

"Your eyes-" Is all she got out before she realized it might be rude. She didn't want to be like the others in the Order, taking only an interest in their prisoner-shaman to mock what they found out.

Olwen nodded at her in acknowledgment. "Ah, yes. Bahar blesses you with the nature of the hawk." He winced. "That is to say, you notice things others do not, not that you are war-like. Anyway, I pay respects to the dead this way." He placed a large hand on the forehead of the deceased Gifted boy. "Great loss of life changes the world in a subtle way - only those keen enough can see it - but I mark that change."

"At least someone does," Cressida said.

He motioned toward the book still against her chest. "I am not the only one."

"What will you do with him?" Greer asked.

A look of weariness came over his face. "I don't yet know. I wish...well, it would be better if I knew his motherland, as to follow his culture's death ceremonies." He traced a scar down the boy's chin. "You would think Ethrian, would you not? Because of where he was killed. But his skin, his features - I can see a proud Agrian there."

Greer wouldn't know; she hadn't seen many Agrians, but Cressida seemed to agree.

"Yes," the girl whispered, "A lot of them in Gueule d'Or du Lion look like that. Or at least they did, when I was there." Her eyes grew dark. "Briefly."

Greer felt...homesick, strangely enough, homesick on the behalf of this boy who had ventured across the great deserts of Agria only to burn in Ethrias.

But did he not deserve it at all? She was ashamed she even had to ask. His very existence as one of Gifted proved he'd murdered someone, someone he loved and someone who loved him. But murder was murder, wasn't it? The Order killed on the daily.

Her sisters face, made blurry by time and monstrous by circumstance, flashed through her mind. Oh, yes - murder was murder, and murderers had to pay.

This time, Greer did jump, startled by the gong ringing above, metallic bangs that reverberated through the stone basement, making dust fall. She, Cressida, and Olwen all shared a look of alarm.

"There's an intruder in the Fortress!"

* * *

When the gong rang, Killian nearly lost his bottom lip. The girl, some nameless trainee, who'd been playfully nibbling on it bit him savagely, and they broke apart, startled. Next, he heard the yelling, the pounding of boots on stone.

In an instant, confusion snapped to action, and Killian slapped the girl's still present hands away. He ransacked the disheveled bed."Where're my fucking pants."

He was done talking to her, but she must've assumed his snarly statement was directed at her person. She scowled, flipping unruly red strands of hair out of her face, and covered her chest.

"I don't know. What's going on?"

He found the pants and wasted no time putting them on. "Get dressed - we're under attack." Boots - check. Next was his scabbard; it, at least, was where it was supposed to be, hanging on his armor stand. The armor itself was an unfortunate situation. It was somewhere in Matthias's study, presumably being mended. "Angeline, darling -"

Apparently, she was having just as hard a time of it finding her own things. She stilled her frantic movements to glower. "Evelina."

He probably knew that, deep down. "Whatever. Just don't be here when I return." He tossed her nightgown in her general direction. "And don't die out there. It would be such a waste."

"There's a word for people like you -" Her neck was turning as red as her hair.

"Victorious." And with that and a grin, Killian, scabbard slung over his shoulder, stepped out into the chaos.

The dormitory hall was open to the night sky, on a level above the main training ground. He spared a moment to analyze his surroundings, his hands resting on the parapets, cool against his skin. Many of his brothers-in-arms ran about, panicked - many in various states of undress, like himself. Killian hissed air out between his teeth, reaching for the latter leading to the ground below. They were better than this. This was unprofessional.

It was pathetic.

A novice saw him descend and came running over. "Killian! Killian -"

"Speak," he growled.

The boy paled, a dagger clutched in his shaky fingers. He couldn't have been more than thirteen. "Yes, sir. There's an intruder." His eyes became even wider. "There's an intruder here, in the Fortress."

Killian took note that though he heard much panicking, he didn't hear any fighting. The boy did say intruder - singular. "Where is the Legate?"

"Securing the Avatar. He told me to find you."

"Well, you found me." He placed his hands on the boy's shoulder and gave him a push in the other direction. "Now go secure yourself. This is not your day to fight."

Killian lingered only a minute more, watching the young novice stumble off to safety, and then he was vaulting up the stairs that led into the south wing of the Fortress. While most of his comrades seemed to be congregating in the courtyard, ostensibly protecting the main front doors, Killian had different designs.

There's only one reason a lone attacker would dare breach the most heavily guarded Order stronghold in Ethrias: to assassinate the Avatar of Lux. And assassins didn't use the front door. If Killian were going to kill the chosen one of the goddess of victory, he knew exactly where he'd go to do it.

The Avatar's oratory was pungent with incense and filled with shadows, and on the mezzanine above Killian drew his weapon. He could see them between the cascading swathes of red silk, a hooded figure looking down over the balustrade, and at the whispered hiss of a blade being released, they turned to face him.

"You're either very stupid or very brave," Killian drawled, slinking between the crimson panels. The assassin was obscured, but he could sense they did not move.

The silence would have been complete, if not for the soft pops of candle flame, the rustle of fabric as he brushed against it, and the praying of the Avatar from below. His Most Holy was on his knees before the shrine of Lux, fervent murmurs coming from between his lips. He was surrounded by a bulwark of warriors - and of course, the good Legate - but what use were swordsmen when your enemy was above.

The assassin would have the Avatar perish as he prayed for victory, for the Order, but Killian would not allow it - he would take that victory for himself.

He lunged at the last drape, thrusting his blade through it. Much to his chagrin, it met nothing but cloth and air. The silk behind him swished and he whirled, sending the panels swinging. The assassin was now a few feet away, perched on the marble balustrade like a cat.

Quietly, they spoke. "I did not come here for a fight." It was a female voice, and frankly, Killian wasn't surprised, not with the women he knew.

"Then you should not have come."

She must have felt confident in her abilities to evade a sword, such was the disadvantage of a short-range weapon, but Killian did not just have a sword in his hand. It was instinct, finding the release on the hilt, and a rapid motion of his wrist shot out the segmented blades of the whip. He flicked it with lethal intent and it whistled through the air. Few other sounds in life made him happier.

Except for the pained groans of his enemies, which, in this case, he did not hear.

The assassin flipped back twice and twirled away, using the Lux-forsaken silken drapes. Killian swung the whip, entangling the offending fabric and tearing it in two - he'd had enough of it.

The warriors on the oratory floor had just come to the realization there was a fight going on above their heads, and more importantly, the sanctified head of the Avatar. Killian, attacking with both great finesse and control and still missing his target, allowed himself a small smile. If it weren't for him, the Avatar would be bleeding out on the gold-threaded Agrian carpets. How did the Order ever survive without him.

Whoever she was, she was impressive, but she was running out of room, and Killian had much longer strides. And when she stumbled, he was there to exploit it. He struck out with the whip, coiling it around her legs and yanking it tight. A sound of pain emanated from her throat and she fell onto the balustrade, staring up into his face with a toxic mixture equal parts fear and disbelief. Her eyes were so affrighted and so - well, blue - he hesitated a full two seconds before kicking her off the mezzanine and to the mercy of the twenty-foot drop from it. And that's when he felt panic for the first time this whole night.

She never made it to the floor. She'd simply…disappeared.

"Shit."

And there she was, on the shoulder of Lux, bleeding red all over the otherwise colorless image. It was fitting - the goddess of victory should be covered in blood.

The assassin held open her arms, palms out, imploring. "Please," her tone was the epitome of desperation, "Listen to me. Avatar of Lux, I come with a message."

Legate Magalos was snarling, sword raised, spittle flying from his mouth. "Get that heretic down!"

"If I come down and submit, will you listen?"

The Legate was marching forward, flanked by his men. "You will not bargain, heathen - you stand before the chosen of Lux."

"Wait a moment, Legate." Everyone froze, including Magalos. The Avatar came to stand in front, dressed in his ceremonial armor even now. "I will hear what she has to say fore she came to say it at great risk." He cast his gaze up to the mezzanine and Killian could feel it on every part of him at once. His Most Holy dipped his chin ever so slightly.

"But Avatar," the Legate began, "it's not safe - that, " he pointed to the girl on Lux's shoulder, "Creature would have your life."

"Perhaps. I would still let her speak."

With more prudence than he was known for, the Legate backed down, bowing quickly.

"Well," the Avatar said with an air of pleasantness, "Shall you come down so I may hear your message?"

Killian could see her hesitation even from the great distance he was at, but after his way of "greeting," he supposed that a degree of caution was apt. Much more clumsily than she was moving earlier, the girl climbed from the statue, sliding the rest of the way until her boots met the carpeted floor. Like wolves on a hare, the officers descended upon her, dragging her unresisting body before the Avatar and then forcing her to her knees.

Slowly, His Most Holy knelt, examining his would-be killer's face. "You are so young," he mused. "Allow me to just…" he slipped the dark hood from her head.

The intakes of breath from everyone in the room culminated into a highly audible gasp.

Killian could have been mistaken, he was indeed far away and high above, but it looked like…

The Avatar brought one gloved finger to the girl's elongated, pointy ear. "An elf."

"Impossible." Magalos strode up beside His Most Holy - a breach in decorum, Killian might add - to get a closer look. "Elves are extinct. This is impo–"

"And yet," the Avatar said, "Here I have an elf before me, and one who says she has a message."

The…elf in question was looking between the faces of her captors. There was fear there, but she pressed on, squaring her slim shoulders. "I am an agent of Naltia, and my mistress implores you Avatar, change your course. If you do not, if you continue leading your Order down this path, you will be rewarded with naught but ruin. Please, you must –"

The Avatar struck her across the face. The elf did not cry out. "How dare you, you stupid child. I am Lux's chosen. I know her will, and what you speak? It is blasphemy." He rose to his full height, face like a storm. "Chain her."

"Her will is destruction!" There were tears brimming in the elf's crystalline eyes.

"Righteous destruction." The Avatar's sneer morphed into a smile. "All those who deny, who betray, who blaspheme with their continued existence, will be made ash. And from the ash, the victorious will rise."

A single tear slipped down her cheek. "Then Naltia will not aid you. You are lost to the winds, Avatar. You will ache and your Order will crumble and you will find all the compassion you put forth - none."

An array of emotion flickered across the Avatar's face. What he settled on was rage. He drew his golden sword with a savage whoosh. "I will end you myself."

The elf's lids fluttered closed, her head bowed. Killian couldn't believe that she would just accept death, not after how she danced to get away from him. He found himself practically hanging over the balustrade, something dangerously close to a protestation forming in his throat.

The candlelight glimmered on the shining blade, casting a reflection almost like water on the girl's blonde hair. And then the sword arched down to strike nothing. The Avatar stumbled forward, very nearly falling onto his own blade.

While His Most Holy shrieked in anger, invoking Lux and Oberis and everything else, Killian searched the entirety of the oratory with his eyes and found nothing. The elf had done it again, but this time she was gone, leaving behind only a red-stained shrine of a goddess who promised destruction.

* * *

"Kamil."

Nothing.

"Kamiiiil. Kamilicious. Kamil-y."

He'd been asleep, or rather he was trying to be, but it was rather difficult with an eleven-year-old child repeatedly and purposefully butchering your name.

"For the love of the gods Nuri, go back to sleep. Or at the very least let me sleep."

A bedroll in an abandoned shipping warehouse wasn't the homiest of places, granted, but home was where the heart was. Or maybe it was where the annoying little sister wasn't.

As soon as he thought that, Kamil felt the irrational urge to apologize - he only thought it, after all. But Nuri was home. No matter how many times she woke him up in the middle of the night, or bit him when she was angry, she was still all he had.

He rolled over to see her still lingering over him, her face scrunched up like it did when she was contemplating, which was usually dangerous.

"Nuri, what is it?"

"She wants to warn you about me, I believe."

Kamil did NOT know that voice. Any sluggishness he had felt evaporated into the humid Agrian air, and he leaped to his feet, thrusting Nuri behind him without thinking. He summoned a dagger from his satchel into his hand.

"Who are you?" His heart was pounding so hard it threatened to burst from its bone cage, and he tried to calm himself for Nuri's sake. Her small fist clutched the cotton of his sleep shirt. "If you wanted an illicit meeting with me in the middle of the night, you only need ask."

"No, I think not." There was movement in the darkness, and from it sauntered a woman almost as dark as the shadows themselves. She wore a black dress that matched her black skin, and her hair - you guessed it - was also black, hanging in dreadlocks to her waist. "You're a bit too manly to satisfy my tastes."

"Ah, well. If only I could be a woman. You still haven't told me who you are."

"I am Omaria." She came closer and Kamil lifted the dagger to let her know it was close enough. She grinned wickedly, revealing a set of shiningly white teeth. "I find it funny, Kamil, that you use magic to bring that wee knife into your hand when the magic itself is a far greater weapon."

"I find it funny, Omaria, that you break into my warehouse in the middle of the night to tell me you find me funny."

The smile dropped from her face. "You asked who I am, but it is not who I am that matters, but who I serve. Who we serve."

Kamil felt sick. He should have known - deep down he always did know - that she wouldn't let him get away. Kamil became one of the Gifted, what a laugh that term was, to be free from his father's persecutors, but now he was more trapped than ever.

"Nuri," he whispered, "Go to bed." And to his great surprise, she listened for once. He waited until she was behind the screen that constituted as her "room," and only then did he speak.

"Now tell me, what dark deed does Mortabela wish of me?" If he could have laced any more reluctance to that question, the personification of impossibility itself would be shocked.

"There is an agent of another of the gods' running amuck in Ethrias. Our mistress would have this upstart dead, and we are most pleased to oblige, are we not?"

Kamil knew Nuri was probably listening. "No."

Omaria drew back a step, her upper lip curling. "You would defy our generous mistress, who gifted you with a bit of her own power, who saved you from the vicious Order dogs, who," She tilted her head toward the screen, "allows you to hang on to the dead weight of your former life, despite your promise to serve her eternal."

Without meaning to, Kamil summoned flames to his dagger-wielding hand. It made the steel hot and it, not the flames, burnt him. With a hiss, he dropped the dagger and it fell to the floor with a clang.

Omaria laughed, a sound brittle and hollow as a funeral bell. "Oh, you will do this for our mistress. I know you will and you know will. Anything to protect sweet. Little. Nuri." She circled him, placing her cold hands on his back. "Tell me, did she scream when you put out her eye?"

A shout of rage tore from him and he swung at the witch, but she was already back to her darkened corner, using her powers to enhance her speed. She appeared pleased, not frightened like Kamil would have liked.

"Save a little of that anger for our agent friend, and things will go just fine." Omaria kicked at something large lying at her feet, something Kamil didn't notice before. It was a body. "Now, help me fix this boy up. The dogs got him, I'm afraid."

* * *

A/N: I'm too exhausted to edit or write long author notes, so yeah. Forgive me for my mistakes in writing, oh readers. Tell me what you think!

Your reviews for the last chapter were a great source of inspiration and happiness to me!

Also, I'm so sorry LifeisBeautiful17, I misspelled Matthias's name last chapter! I'd accidentally written it down wrong in my notes, which made me write it wrong in the upload. I will go back and fix it eventually.

And onto another mistake I made, this one with continuity. I wrote that Matthias was the last one to join the group. Going back and looking at the forms, I was wrong - Cressida was last one to join. I will eventually fix that too.

And finally, I made Pinterest boards for this story and its characters! If you have accounts yourselves, you can talk to me on there and send me pins for your character's aesthetic board. Look me up on Pinterest with my username Nia Irial, or use this link: w ww . pinter est pinkp izza8441/

Remember to remove the spaces if you search the link.

Have a wonderful day or night, and I'll see you all next time.


	4. Into the Dark, DarK Wood

For the past several days, the world had felt tilted. Someone had infiltrated The Fortress of Light - which should not be possible - and since then no one under superior rank had seen hide nor hair of the Avatar. It made Leon feel sick to his stomach and listening to the all the conjecture running rampant in the Order certainly didn't help.

He ran the curry comb down the horse's dirtied neck, the short teeth of the brush disentangling any earthen clods from the creature's fine hair. Without noticing, Leon had been going over the same spot again and again, too caught up in the worrying sound of Cressida's voice floating down from the loft above along with loose strands of hay.

To be accurate, it wasn't the sound of her voice itself that bothered him - he rather liked her rambling tone, most times - it was what she was saying.

"He's probably dead or headed there. Possibly disfigured. I mean why else would they hide him away like this? It's been three days, Leon, three whole days. He hasn't even led morning mediations. It's got to be serious, real serious. If His Most Holy doesn't turn up soon, I'm going to start thinking sleeping-in is a divine act. It is, clearly - it's like a free trial of being dead every night. Which brings me back to my original point. I think we're down an Avatar. Who do you think Lux will choose next? Leon?"

He released a slow huff of air, glad, for only about the millionth time, not many others arose from the bed as early as he and Cressida. The things that sometimes came out of her mouth...Lux, they were nearly heretical.

"I think -" The big bay mare turned to glare at him for his inactivity, and he patted her back in apology, "That you, and everyone else, are getting ahead of yourselves. If the Avatar had perished, Lux forbid it, someone would have told us. It would have to be announced - the King would come and everything. Have you so little faith?"

Her head popped over the wooden edge of the loft floor, dark braid dangling down. There was hay stuck in it. "It's not about faith." Her mouth curled around the last word like she'd bit into something sour. "It's about common sense -"

"And you're not exactly known for that," he mare snorted as if in agreement.

"Something went on three nights ago, and everyone who knows anything is hush hush about it. Then the Avatar suddenly becomes reclusive when he usually enjoys strutting around like some kind of exotic bird. That's not cause for suspicion?"

Leon began brushing again, trying to calm his whirring mind. "I'll admit, I do have a bad feeling." Before she could turn that into something, he added with haste, "But I also have faith that all will end well. It always has before."

To that, she said nothing, but he heard her rustling around, climbing down the latter to the ground floor. She stopped by the open stable door.

"Everything ends, anyway." And then she flipped her braid and marched out.

Leon sighed.

"Taking a tumble in the hay, were you?" It was Killian.

"Get fucked."

"Nah, don't believe Leon likes a third, but I appreciate the offer."

Leon sighed harder.

Killian, shit-eating grin intact, appeared around the corner, looking all too bright-eyed for it being just past sunrise. He was already wearing his amour and everything - Matthias must have fixed it.

"Why do you always have to antagonize her?"

He shrugged without enthusiasm. "Perhaps it's my way of telling others how much they mean to me?"

"If only that were remotely true." Leon gave the mare a final stroke and stepped away. He placed the curry comb back onto the tack wall. He would clean it later, when he had less company. "Why are you so jaunty, anyway?"

"Aren't I always jaunty? There's no point in being miserable all the time." His grin shifted into something a little more sharp, a little more sly. "Unless one is in love with a girl of contemptible origin who scarcely knows you exist." He corrected his posture. "But I digress. I'm actually here to offer you a chance at glory."

Leon counted to five in his head before he chose his words - carefully. "How thoughtful of you, but as we're of the same rank, I really don't think you can offer me anything."

"I trust you're aware of the incident the other night?"

"As aware as anyone seems to be."

"That's where you're wrong." He was entirely gleeful in the saying so. "I was there. There indeed was an intruder in the fortress, and they escaped. The Avatar - and yes, he is well - wishes this...person apprehended." Killian gave a somewhat genuine smile, for once. "The Legate is putting together a small unit to track them, and he's tasked me with gathering any I believe would be well suited for the job."

Leon tried to process all this. No wonder there had been no word. The infiltrator had not only broken in with success, they had also gotten out - it was a massive security risk. Whoever it was had to be caught, interrogated, and, well, then the inevitable...

But why would Killian want him?

"Why me?"

Killian pushed off the post he'd been leaning against. "You're a good soldier, Leon; you only keep bad company."

Leon knew what ''bad company'' he was referring to. He also knew he was going to make sure she was going with him - Cressida could finally improve her standing with the Order. The thought made him smile.

"When are we leaving?"

"That's the spirit." He sauntered out into the morning sunshine, golden and ready to conquer. "Today, after they ready the supplies. You might want to say any important farewells. With any luck, the task will be quickly accomplished, but we don't believe in luck, do we?"

He shook his head. "We make our own."

What was luck when you have skill, faith - glory. Leon touched the outline of the amulet of Lux beneath his shirt. The goddess of victory was on their side.

* * *

Matthias was cold-sweating right down to his smallclothes. He wasn't comfortable with fieldwork. Watching the others scurry around him, hauling weapons and...Lux forsake it, they were bringing the giant with them - it really was serious - he really, really didn't like fieldwork. But the Legate had personally recruited him for this mission, an honor of course, and he'd made it clear they needed someone of his intellectual status along. If only they'd told him what he was going to be used for.

By the looks of it, they were attempting to travel light: only vital supplies, warriors, weapons, and the horses to carry it all. It was a small group. Matthias knew everyone, both a fortune and a misfortune. Gathered by the gates stood Legate Megalos, twin senior officers Cassian and Credence, Killian, Greer, Olwen, and himself. Matthias knew Leon was coming, a relief, but it appeared he was running late. He hoped all was well with his friend; tardiness was out of character.

Matthias was cold-sweating right down to his smallclothes. He wasn't comfortable with fieldwork. Watching the others scurry around him, hauling weapons and...Lux forsake it, they were bringing the giant with them - it really was serious - he really, really didn't like fieldwork. But the Legate had personally recruited him for this mission, an honor of course, and he'd made it clear they needed someone of his intellectual status along. If only they'd told him what he was going to be used for.

By the looks of it, they were attempting to travel light: only vital supplies, warriors, weapons, and the horses to carry it all. It was a small group. Matthias knew everyone, both a fortune and a misfortune. Gathered by the gates stood Legate Megalos, twin senior officers Cassian and Credence, Killian, Greer, Olwen, and himself. Matthias knew Leon was coming, a relief, but it appeared he was running late. He hoped all was well with his friend; tardiness was out of character.

Greer swung up onto a horse beside him, bow and quiver full of arrows attached to her back. When she'd heard (okay, when he'd told her) that he was going out on an assignment related to the recent chaos, she'd insisted that she come.

Someone has to protect that lanky ass of yours, she'd said. Matthias told the Legate he needed her for potential research purposes. The man only shrugged. He didn't know much about research.

"Where do you think he is?" Greer craned to look back at the Fortress, though from here the dormitories were not visible.

Matthias opened his mouth to say a phrase he did not like - I don't know - when he saw Leon emerge from the stables, and trotting along beside him was Cressida, already mounted on a thick bay.

When they reached the group, Leon mounted the animal waiting for him.

"Cressida?" Greer's face was shining. "I didn't know you were coming."

Killian strode between them. "Oh, she isn't."

Matthias noticed Leon sit up a little straighter. "I invited her, Killian. What's the harm?"

"This isn't a picnic or a party - you can't just invite whomever you wish."

A few feet over from where he was securing his pack, Legate Megalos took note of the budding argument. When he came over, he wore a scowl; at least that was not out of the ordinary.

"What's this?" His tone was one of command.

"Leon," Killian began accusingly, "Thought, for some reason, it would be a good idea to bring along Haizea."

The Legate looked between them. "Well, what do you want to do?"

From her perch, Cressida blinked. "You're asking me?"

"Unless you'd rather I ask someone else."

"I'd come, sir."

The Legate swung up onto his own steed, a fine white stallion adorned in gold tack. "Then there's not an issue, is there? Mind yourselves, all of you." He raised an arm and brought it down. "Foward ho."

And their little platoon rode out, followed by Olwen who refused to ride a horse like the rest of them. They could find one accommodating to his size, surely, but the giant said he preferred to walk. Matthias supposed that if he had as long of strides as him he would travel on his own two feet as well.

Come nightfall, Matthias felt that perhaps a journey on foot would in fact be better. Anything would be better than the dull, throbbing ache in his lower back, not to mention his hindquarters themselves... Greer had to help him dismount his horse.

"I'm afraid you've already failed on your objective of protecting my ass." He winced, waddling away from the offending creature.

Greer took the reins, leading the thing to the edge of the burbling stream the Legate had decided to camp by. She was doing a poor job of containing her laughter.

Matthias dropped his pack and flopped down beside it. "This is why I don't like equine beasts."

Leon, from where he unsaddled said beasts, scowled so deeply it was visible in the downy, fading light. "It's not their fault. I told you to stretch before we rode out."

"I did stretch, and the painful evidence is suggesting stretching doesn't help."

"You're just not accustomed to riding all day," Cressida added. She was digging out pots and pans from a saddlebag.

Greer sat down beside her. "I'll help cook."

"No!" They'd said it all at once, and the girl gaped.

She crossed her arms. "I'm not that bad."

"No offense Greer, but we don't need anybody getting dysentery out here," Leon said it perfectly reasonably, Matthias thought, but she still looked offended.

"You can start the fire, though," Cressida gave in way of consolation.

"Fine." She held out a hand. "Someone give me a flint."

The settling darkness was pushed out in shadowy margins by the illumination of the impressive campfire Greer was able to start. Matthias was recovered enough to hunt for sticks at least, though bending to get them was a chore. He dug about in the brush surrounding the small clearing, not venturing too far into the treeline - Olwen had cheerfully informed them that setting up camp directly by a freshwater source wasn't all that secure. Apparently, lots and lots of forest critters, large and small, came out at night to drink. He wasn't too keen on the idea of getting early introductions with any of them.

And on that note, the sound of snapping and crunching nearby made Matthias break out in chills. He froze, straining to hear the direction of the commotion. Much to his alarm, it was right behind him. Something touched his back, and he whirled, brandishing a fat stick.

Killian blinked at him owlishly, two dead rabbits swinging in each hand. "Matthias, what are you doing?"

Breathing a sigh of relief, he lowered his stick - realizing then he'd forgot to go for the dagger at his belt - and smiled sheepishly. "Oh, you know, just gathering firewood."

"Uh-huh. Perhaps you could do that without nearly putting out my eyes? Come on, they'll be wanting these back at camp."

Wielding his catch, Killian trotted back toward the warm flicker of the fire. Matthias was quick to follow, lifting his foot in a big step - and then he noticed it.

It could have been from the snared rabbits, he hoped it was, but Matthias read books on such things and he knew better.

"My," he felt slightly dizzy, "That's an awful lot of blood."

* * *

Olwen kneeled by the drying pool of blood. With only the tips of his fingers, he swiped through it, feeling the consistency.

"Well, is it the elf assassin?" The gruff voice of Megalos was always like nails on a chalkboard, as the Lowlanders would say, and this circumstance was no different.

Olwen defeated the urge to roll his eyes. "I have no way of knowing without -"

The man was right behind him in the unfortunate position of being very close to his ears. "Aren't you supposed to be able to divine these things out, savage?"

Standing to his full height, he leveled the man with an icy gaze. "I have that ability, yes, but only with a sample of the blood of who I am tracking. For comparison."

Megalos scoffed, mustache quivering. "Truly, what good is that?" He turned on his heel. "Cassian, Credence, savage - on point with me. Killian, lead the others and head south, downstream. If you locate the assassin, we want her alive, if she's not dead already - am I clear?"

"Yes, sir."

Olwen never cared much for the golden one, Killian. One so young should not have eyes that hollow, a common occurrence in older Order soldiers, he'd learned. The first casualty in war is innocence. Olwen hated seeing that proven true, over and over again, and every time he killed in the Order's name he prayed - not to Lux, never to Lux - that the person who fell was not an innocent.

Magalos led them out into the darkened forest, the eager armored twins at his heels - Olwen didn't like them either, not that it mattered. He hung back a bit, otherwise, his strides would quickly overcome theirs and Bahar forbid.

It was a cool, calm night, the air balmy, the breeze sweet - not a night for death. They were closing in on the Testroyvan border, and the wind carried whispers of the past and pangs of nostalgia.

One day, when he was free, he would return to his people, to his mother and father. It had be so long since he performed the Rite of Ash, so long since Caius, since Calmouth, that dreaded city. If he could go back, if he could -

Even in the corrosive grip of the land of reminiscence, Olwen still saw it. The others did not.

A glimmer of white, the glint of blades in pale moonlight.

He began to move, to shout, but he was behind, and it was too late. From the full bush of the treetops, a figure clad all in black, except for their two wicked blades, one each for the neck of Cassian and Credence, fell like a shadow. It was impossible to tell which brother cried out, perhaps neither, perhaps both. Olwen knew how others greeted death; anything once of significance to them was rendered meaningless by the pools of red streaming onto the ground.

The assassin leaped toward Magolos' turned back. At the last moment, he whirled, the death-blow striking the steel of his shield. Olwen registered the clanging, the flying of sparks, as he kneeled by the first fallen soldier. He couldn't tell which.

The man looked up at him, eyes so large, blood spurting from the hole in his throat and bubbling from his lips. He gurgled in his efforts to speak.

"H...h...elp-"

Olwen nodded so he would understand, reaching for the pouch on his belt. It contained medicine, herbs, and things of a darker origin. "I am."

The soldier shook, his hand feebly reaching out, pointing. "N...no. Help my, my -"

He fell back. Dead.

He moved to the other. The whites of this one's eyes were so bright. Olwen stared into them, his hands slipping around on a torn throat seeking the thrum of life. What he sought - there was nothing.

A prayer would be the only kindness, but there was no time for it. Olwen could still save the Legate. He rose, his maul heavy in his hand when the man cried out.

The assassin's blade had met flesh and ripped back. The Legate was hunkered over, clutching his eye, blood so dark it appeared brown running through his fingers.

"Kill her!"

Olwen swung. His reach was long and it hit. The assassin, he learned, was only a girl. The force of his maul slamming into her side made her airborne, cracking her body against the trees. She thudded to the ground and stayed there, unmoving.

His next move was to aid Magalos, but Magalos wanted no aid. His blade was drawn, dragging in the dirt as he haggered his way toward the prone form of the elven girl.

His right eye socket was red and hollow and dripping.

"Wait." Olwen's voice rang out, reverberating against the trees, distorted by echo.

"No waiting!" The man swayed on his feet. "I'll have its ears."

Olwen could not explain it - he was overcome with an eerie calm, like a storm before it hit the lakes of Vatnið í Bænum. He could see the dark waters, reflecting back the black clouds, unbothered, unburdened, unafraid.

"You will not touch her."

Magalos continued toward her. "You - you do not order me,"

He saw the winds of the storm shaking the trees, the trees shaking the ground as they fall. Olwen lifted the maul above his head and brought it down. The great head of steel struck the earth - the earth shook. Legale Magalos stumbled and fell and roared in anger.

Olwen felt the certainty of the storm inside, the raging winds and the gentle rain, and he knew without a doubt that Bahar, god of the wilds, had spoken to him.

Wild wolves roamed the snow-covered forest floor, sensitive noses searching for a scent trail. Yellow eyes shone beneath the light of the moon, droplets sparkling against the thick fur of the creatures. All kept close, aware of what dangers the night hours always brought.

Hearing the sudden snap of a branch, the pack tensed, ears trained on the source of the noise. The biggest of the wolves crept forward, stilling itself upon seeing a shadow dart between trees, movements slow and stunted. The alpha did not snap, nor did it rush to sink its teeth into the strange creature. It kept moving on, allowing its pack to reach the flowing river below.

The pack remained wary at the river's edge, eyes upward even as they lapped at the water. The ridge-backed alpha gagged, the taste of iron clear in the water it had drunk. It wasn't like the blood from a hunt- no, no- it was different... human, almost.

It had hunted men before, even bit one, once. But this seemed different- it could taste fear.

More blood followed in the stream, then- shards of wood, bandages. Torn cloth followed suit as well, causing some of the pack to stumble back, yips and short howls ripping from their throats. A body soon rolled onto the pebble shore, coughing and sputtering a vile mix of bile and water. Cloth was soaked with red, a shaky hand clutching at wounded flesh.

The pack gathered around the elf, curiously sniffing at the young woman. Before one could even lick at the wounds, shouting sounded in the distance, a mix of guttural growls and hoots rattling the eardrums of the animals. Knowing what would very well follow upon their discovery, the wolves fled, darting off into the trees to avoid the danger.

Out of the bush came a wild-man, yelling loudly as he swung his behemoth of an axe. He ceased his actions upon seeing the last of the pack flee, and wiped spit from his beard as he turned.

The hunter possessed the stature of a half-giant, body nearly dwarfing the pines that surrounded him. Dirtied, olive skin looked near-pale beneath the moon, warpaint covering the horrid mess of scars across his body. While he may have had the appearance of a crazed, blood-hungry hunter, his eyes spoke differently- he was only trying to save the rogue that lay at his feet.

With what strength he could muster, the goliath of a man lifted the elf in his arms, feeling her shaky wheezes and pained groans against his own bones. Before the hunter could set foot onto solid land, sudden whispers caught his attention. He turned his head ever so slightly, gaze falling on a pair of blinking eyes.

A Great Hart. It stood across the stream, ward-adorned antlers fresh with mud. It stood proudly, unafraid of the axe hooked to the human's side.

The hunter nodded in acknowledgment, the hart snorting in defiance before retreating into the treeline.

"Hmph," the man huffed. "It seems you have two gods in your favor, elf."

The rogue said nothing, the pain too great for her to utter one word. Her breaths were soon drowned out by the distant yells of men, the neighing of horses echoing soon after. The hunter could see the fire of torches, flames dancing against the crudely carved planks. This wasn't his fight- he wasn't going to risk allowing a favored agent of Naltia to die by the hands of the Order.

Not even Bahar himself would allow such bloodshed to happen in his domain, in the very wilds he claimed.

"Find that damned elf!" the Legate screamed, voice hoarse. "No one is leaving until we put the assassin in chains!"

It wouldn't be long before the soldiers would find a blood trail. With a free hand, he removed the hoplon shield from his back, setting it into the water. He placed the elven assassin within it, the hunter walking into the water. He allowed the ground to slip from beneath his feet, floating alongside the makeshift "raft."

Soon, the river grew as the two continued down its path, carrying them away from the danger that approached.

"Gamiméni kólasi," hissed the man, water now to his chest. "What did you do to get the Order this pissed, elf?"

Stirring awake, the assassin coughed, eyes glistening with tears.

"I spoke the truth... they... did not want to accept-" she paused, reaching to wipe the blood from her nose. "...they did not want to accept such...fate."

The man was silent. He knew of both the fate of gods' and the wrath of the Order. They had taken things from him, things he would never be able to get back. And now he was hunted by those he used to kill - he'd earned Mortabela's mark of death.

But now, he would obey Bahar's will. He would give aid to the goddess of mercy, and he would bid his time. The winds spoke of it, the waters ran bitter with its promise - it was the time of reckoning.

* * *

A/N: We'll begin with our Gifted next chapter - how exciting!

The section about the mysterious man was written by my lovely co-author. You're awesome, KaI!

Don't be afraid to come at me with questions, exclamations, and insane theories in the reviews. Love you guys, and see you next time!


	5. Like a Hare

Far be it from Omaria to question the will of her goddess, but as she made haste from the Agrian port city out into the sweltering desert, she couldn't help but long for solitude. There was none to be had.

"Are we there yet?" Kamil, the annoying, pretty one asked for only the 27th time. He was doing it on purpose, she knew it.

Gritting her teeth behind her face scarf, Omara deigned not to answer. So far, she preferred the burnt boy. Arren, their mistress had called him. Looking at him, Omaria couldn't quite understand what he was good for. His skin was white, his hair was white, and he'd barely spoken a word since they'd healed the worst of his wounds. That's gratitude for you, though she was rather pleased he was not so chatty as the other one.

"It's a lovely day today, isn't it?" Kamil sat lopsided astride his horse, leaning precariously to the left as he was trying to recline in a chair. "The sun is shining, the birds are singing, circling overhead...wait, those are vultures."

"They'll be fat off your corpse if you don't hush." Omaria didn't bother injecting any venom into her voice. She didn't need to for people to realize her threats were real.

Kamil leaned to the other side in a casual stretch. "Yes, yes. Death and dismemberment are coming my way if I don't do your dark bidding, I know." He looked to Arren. "You've been with our girl longer than I have - is she always this cheerful, or is it only for me?"

Blankly, Arren blinked at him, sand clinging to his pale lashes. "I've been unconscious. How would I know?"

Omaria dug her heels into her animal's flanks, urging it forward and away from this talkative urchin. And speaking of actual urchins, they'd left Kamil's behind in the Agrian warehouse. Omaria tried not to feel anything when she'd realized the little girl was his sister. It seemed the universe was bent on planting painful reminders in her path. She was surprised, however, he agreed to leave her behind. But Kamil wasn't stupid - she gathered he only wanted others to believe that so he may con them or something similar - bringing the girl along would put her in harm's way. No matter. If Omaria needed leverage against the lesser Gifted, nowhere in this forsaken desert was away from her reaching grasp. Soon, she may have to remind him of that fact.

Up ahead in the grainy darkness, she saw it. Two orbs of sapphire blue light floating like ghosts. Poetic, but they were only markers left by the hand of a greater power. As they came nearer, a mound of sand and stone rose from the ground, the markers illuminating from each a darkened cavern leading into the ground. She dismounted, waiting for her company to do the same.

"We're going into a dark hole?" Kamil's brows were inching closer to his hairline. Arren simply shrugged. Again, she chose not to answer.

Omaria descended, step by step, into said "hole." The air was cooler here, but not by much, and musty, but she could sense the tingle of old and familiar magic. It brushed against her skin, a friend, a weapon, a part of her. She wondered if the others felt anything similar; she wasn't going to ask.

Ahead, settled back into the wall, was a circular carving. It was etched with words most mouths knew not how to speak, but on Omaria's tongue, they fell like water.

"Haec via ambulate faciemus."

And it awoke, the calligraphy on the circle glowing blue and swirling out to taste its visitors. The stone carving was gone, replaced now with a beautiful, alive pool. Omaria grinned and allowed herself to be swallowed up by it.

"Great. Now we're going into a blue hole."

The world was no longer real. Or at least that's how it felt. They were simply free-floating in magical energy, bathing in it, basking in it. They were nowhere, and everywhere at once. Next came the crystallization. The vague became the known, and like they were swallowed they were spat back out.

Trees. Trees everywhere. She didn't much care for the forest. Pushing herself to her feet, Omaria narrowed her eyes. At least they seemed to be alone here in this grove. Behind her, she heard groaning.

Arren had managed to land atop Kamil, their heads bonking.

Kamil opened one eye, wincing. "This is the part where we kiss, isn't it?"

Miraculously, some color managed to spring into Arren's cheeks, and he ripped himself away from the darker complected boy as if he'd been burnt. Well, he had - and badly - but this was a different kind.

Omaria could barely contain her distaste. "If you are quite finished accosting the sick and the injured, I believe we've been delivered to our destination."

"Oh, would you look at that." Kamil languidly came to his feet. "It's the middle of nowhere."

"We're close to the Testroyvan border," she continued, hands on hips, "Our unfortunate hunter should be close by. Relatively."

"What exactly did the agent of Bahar do to piss you off?"

She clicked her tongue. "Not I, our mistress. She remembers her fallen, each misdeed took us. This hunter used to hunt more than animals when he wore the Order's banner."

Kamil and Arren both took on sour expressions, though, considering recent events, she'd say Arren had more to be disgruntled about.

"Of course." Kamil kicked at the dirt. "I assume you also have a way to track him?"

Omaria's grin showed her teeth. "Like a hare."

* * *

When the Legate returned sans one eye and both twins, Greer didn't know what to think. Panic was there, yes, but it was muted. She was glad the combat training counted for something other than bruises and disappointment.

Despite Olwen being the best healer out of all of them, hands down, the Legate refused to let the giant touch him, and Greer wondered if some type of conflict had happened between them when everything else had gone down. At any rate, she and Leon found themselves tending to the snarling man. Perhaps it was a blessing he was so enraged; he didn't seem to truly feel the pain of their prodding.

Whilst Greer was sloppily whipping together a poultice, Leon was attempting to clean around the wound. There was a degree of difficulty, as Megalos insisted on animatedly giving out orders to Killian, who was the next ranking officer due to...well, the apparent deaths. Killian wore an expression of grim respect, but Greer suspected, knowing him as she did, that he was more gleeful than that on the inside. He'd been both recognized and promoted during the course of one week.

"And when you find her, I want you to bring me her head. She's injured; it should be easy. There will be no mercy, no hesitation. Am I understood?"

Killian, without any sort of emotion, nodded. "Yes, sir."

Greer blanched, walking over to the Legate with the finished poultice. All of this, especially the talk of beheading, was distasteful to her. Leon moved back, blood-soaked cloth in hand, so she could place the herb filled pack on the man's injury. He allowed it, the tightening around his mouth the only indication it was causing him discomfort. Next, with firm fingers, Greer took a strip of bandage and tied it around his head to keep everything in place.

She cleared her throat, stepping away. "This will need to be changed every morning and night, or when it is soaked through."

The Legate squinted at her with his one good eye before waving her away. Leon at her side, she returned to the spot where they'd all placed their bedrolls. Cressida and Matthias were there, watching them.

"What happened out there?" Cressida's eyes shone brightly in the firelight. "Did he say?"

"They were ambushed by the assassin." Leon took a steadying breath. "She killed the twins and escaped."

"Couldn't have happened to nicer brothers."

Matthias elbowed her. "Cressida!"

"Though it is unfortunate," she added, "Like all the other killing."

Leon wore a frown. "Killian is going back out there."

"He can't go alone." Greer shook her head. "That's not strategically sound."

"Seconded," Matthias said. His entire body was tensed. "Which of you is going?"

There was no hesitation when Leon spoke. "I'll do it."

Cressida stood up. "Then I'm coming too. Greer?"

She thought of Killian cutting off this assassin's head. She thought of standing there, having to watch it, having helped it happen, but then she thought of Cressida, of Leon - even of Killian. Nothing was going to happen to them, not if she could help it.

"Fine. We better be ready. We don't really know what's out there."

* * *

"Omari, I'm terribly sorry to say it, but I'm just not cut out for tromping through heavily wooded areas. You'll have to forgive -"

With a finger to his lips, Omaria made the insolent boy hush. "I will cut out your tongue, Kamil, and deliver it to Nuri via a reanimation of your corpse. Silence."

His eyes widened and his smile - what she realized now was just a useless armor - dropped away. His jaw tightened. He was angry - good.

With a side-eyed glance to one rather blank Arren, Omaria turned away. They were on the right path, that much she knew because that much the skull had told her. She kept it in her pocket close to heart - the long since decapitated head of a raven, a symbol of Mortabela's, and when she closed her eyes, closely listened, it told her where to go. The message it had breathed into her consciousness most recently was this: Walk in the footsteps of your enemy.

Either the skull was having a row with her, Kamil's incessant and pointless chattering had made her miss a step, or this hunter had been greatly underestimated. Judging by her recent luck, it could very well be all three. Walk in the footsteps of her enemy. What did the accursed thing think she was doing?

But then she smelled it, her senses heightened by the power she drew to track the hunter.

Fresh blood. Steel. Ash.

She had to move quickly. A hand on each the chest of Kamil and Arren, her fingernails digging into their flesh through the cloth barrier - a warning not to move - she cast a camouflage over them through an extension of her will. And when the young group of Order soldiers came stalking through the trees, they saw only trees.

Leading them was a broad golden-headed boy, followed by a dark-haired one and two dark-haired girls. A small group. A rather sorry group, easily swallowed up by the bad things in the bad woods.

Beside her, Arren and Kamil were tensed; she could hear Arren's labored breathing (Mortabela curse it), and wondered, idly, whether it was hatred or fear. Watching the soldiers, she also wondered what - or who - they sought. She felt that itch. She wanted to kill them.

Kill them she would not. The hissed whisper of the skull clicked into her mind. The followers of Lux were her true enemy. Somehow, they would lead her right to her target, and then she could do away with them too.

* * *

There were stories about the Testroyvan forests, mystical places filled with wild animals and wild people. Greer kept those stories in her mind as she brought up heel in their small battalion. The hairs rose on her arms and on the back of her neck. She felt watched. When she looked around, however, there was nothing but the black forest. It seemed as if it could go on forever.

"Cress." She didn't have to call out far; Cressida walked directly in front of her. She spoke but a whisper and the dense blanket of leaves and space on all sides all but drank up her words.

"What was that?" Cressida craned her head back, her gait not slowing.

"You haven't seen anything, have you?" Again, she checked their surroundings. A raven burst from its roost in a tree, kicking her heart into a cacophony of pounding. It swooped away without so much a caah. Other than that, there was nothing.

"No. It's eerily still here, don't you think? It should be peaceful but it's like...it's difficult to explain."

Greer edged in a little closer to her friend, eager to keep any distance from separating her and the group. "I know what you mean. I don't like it out here."

"If you don't like it, you should have stayed at camp." Killian didn't bother to turn around. "You're all slowing me down, anyway."

"We're here to make you don't die, dipshit."

Leon did turn about, giving Cressida that look he could give so well. It said I'm-not-mad-I'm-disappointed. "Let's not, okay?"

She raised her hands in a motion of surrender. "Fine."

"Yes, Biaggio, it is okay. The thought of any of you rescuing me is absurd."

"I guess we just won't rescue you then."

"Cressida."

While Leon simultaneously tried to defend both Killian and Cressida from each other, Greer could have sworn she saw a flicker in the trees behind them. An actual flicker, not of light, but a shaking in reality, as if the trees themselves weren't quite there.

"What in Lux's name."

Now that she inspected the suspicious vegetation closer, she could see that it was a bit glimmery, minute particles of light, so tiny they appeared like glitter, floating in midair.

"Lux won't help you."

"Who -"

The pop of pain Greer felt against her face came suddenly, and quite literally, out of nowhere. Crying out, she stumbled backward. The heads of Killian, Leon, and Cressida whipped in her direction, each adorned with matching expressions of alarm.

Cressida ran to her, leaning down to inspect her fallen friend. "Greer - what's wrong? What happened? Talk to me."

She couldn't talk at all. It felt as if worms of lightning were burrowing into her skin. Her lips had no feeling save for intense tingling. It was unpleasant in every sense of the word.

Just as suddenly, Cressida was wrenched away from Greer, their clasped hands parting, by an invisible force.

"We're under attack!" Killian had unsheathed his sword, swinging it around as he circled.

Leon also had his weapon drawn, but it was clear his attention was on Cressida's far-flung form and not on his combative stance. A line of blood appeared on his cheek as if the skin itself was unzipping. He yelped, slashing the air around him with his sword.

It was no use. The attacker, or attackers, were invisible.

Greer drug herself across the ground, inch by inch. It was either spit or blood dribbling down her chin. Taking into account the strong taste of metal, she assumed it was the latter - she must have bitten her tongue good. The numbness prevented her from feeling it.

Out of the grass and into the dirt, Greer clawed at it. Hands full of dusty earth, she threw it up into the air. It worked like she hoped. An incorporeal form was coated in dust, and that bit of visibility allowed Killian to charge at it.

Forgoing the sword, he sacked them(it?) like one of the dummies from the training grounds. Greer heard a grunt of pain just moments before the form flickered, bit by bit, into a young man with sun-tanned skin and wild dark hair. Killian's face just had time to melt from enraged to confused before the howling started.

It wasn't the howling of wolves or dogs - it was people. Huge, hulking people in furs descending from the trees and bushes like hatching cicadas. Every one of them had weapons raised; one of them already had Cressida.

To add to Greer's horrified shock, two more people materialized out of thin air. One, a very pale individual with a shock of white hair. The other, the complete opposite - very dark, very imposing woman.

The woman sneered, palms alight with energy that resembled pure lightning. "Testroyvans."

* * *

A/N: So I tried something new this time, switching between POVs of the same two characters - what do you all think of it?

I know this chapter is a little late, but it's not as bad as last time xD. I don't want to post specifics here, of course, but there's some family stuff going on and I have quite regular doctor appointments because of health stuff. I'm not trying to excuse my shoddy behavior; I'm explaining why some chapters may be spaced out in between times.

Also, I have this idea kicking around in my head of starting a series of one-shots centering around these characters' pasts. Every last single one of them has a story, and it's not really probable you'll get the entirety of it while I maintain an already full narrative. Like I said, it would be another posted "fanfic" with chapters each a separate one-shot featuring an incident from someone's personal history. For example, when Cressida first came to the Order, why Killian hates her, why Kamil became one of the Gifted, how Olwen came to be an Order prisoner, etc.

The title I'm chewing on right now is A Vengeance of Memories. In the reviews, please let me know if you'd be interested in reading it, whether you think it's a good or bad idea or something in between.

At any rate, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Fingers crossed the next one will be out without too much time getting away from me. Best believe I'm going to try. I won't just forget about you guys. I love you all, and I hope you have a miraculous day!


	6. Burn the Outsiders

There was no time to react. The impact of her landing forced the breath from her lungs, her back crunching as it made contact with the unforgiving earth. Through the black spots eeking across her vision, Cressida saw the hulking warriors emerging from their surroundings like they were a part of them. Testroyvans. Most likely Freeclan.

Panic stabbed through her along with the pain from her fall. Tales of their brutality were rampant among the Ethrian border villages. Raids, war parties, human sacrifices...

Their howling came unbidden and unnatural to her ears, garbled as though through water or thick cloth. And over that, she could just make out Leon's blessedly familiar voice, calling out to her. Gasping for air, she came to her hands and knees, struggling for the position like an infant might.

There was a pressure at the back of her neck. Sharp, direct pain across her skull. Again, Cressida felt no ground beneath her feet as she was lifted, kicking and twisting, from the forest floor. The man had the sockets of his eyes entirely blacked out with paint or powder, and he held her with one large hand gripping the back of her head.

"Put me down." She meant it as a command, but her shaking voice ruined any hope of that.

The man's lips stretched into a wide grin. Her ears rang as he let out a whooping howl. Behind, in the grove, there was screaming. Then, nothing but darkness.

Cressida dreamt of her father.

The cold, cavernous space spoke to them being underground. He tended a weak fire, shoulders hunched and coiled while he bent over, trying to keep the flame alive. Little Cressida was wrapped in all the blankets, appearing more like a hatchling in a nest than a child in a cave. Her nose was red, her fingers were blue.

Big Cressida was there too. She dug through a bag in the corner, a crease in her forehead, her lips downturned.

"You should come with us, Joel. Cressida shouldn't be without her father."

His movements sputtered like the fire. "I can't."

Big Cressida threw the bag with an aggravated gesture. "You would rather die than join me with Gifted?"

"I'll lead them away from you."

"You're one of us now. Or have you forgotten?"

"I can never forget. Let me throw my life away, Sybil. I cannot bear to live without my wife."

Big Cressida blinked. Sybil, he'd said. That name rang like a bell, echoing with sadness and something sharper than nostalgia. Pangs of loss rolled over her.

Not again. She couldn't lose another mother. A flash of red hair, of flame; of smoke and confusion.

But the scene changed. It was not Sybil whose gut was slashed and emptied onto a stone floor. His eyes were blue. Blue like hers, but glazed like glass, glazed with death.

Cressida was him, and herself, young and old, and Sybil, and the Order men who killed them all.

Wait. That wasn't quite right. Cressida wasn't dead. She'd lived that day and went on living, even in the early days, when she hadn't felt like it. And so had Sybil.

"You have to wake up now, a chuisle, my little heart."

* * *

When the night wore on into the hazy reds and golds of the morning, Olwen knew something was wrong. They should have returned by now unless they were dead or captured. He hoped the latter.

The foolish Legate should have let Olwen go with the group - they were only children, children playing soldier with swords and shields - but the man was blinded by more than the loss of his eye.

Olwen sat with his legs crossed beneath him, concentrating on the feel of the air around him. The crashing in the brush behind shattered what little calm he was attempting to cultivate.

"Matthias, our great thinker. Today they weigh heavy on your mind."

The crashing halted for a moment. "My friends have been gone for hours."

Opening his eyes, Olwen rose from the ground and brushed the dirt from his furs. "And what do you intend to do about it, thinker?"

Matthias put him in mind of an owl, blinking with those large eyes, the windows to the workshop whirring behind them. He released a shuddering sigh. "I don't know. I want to go after them, but..."

"But what?"

The boy gave a helpless look. "I'd probably cause more trouble than good. I'm not exactly the warrior type."

"In every man's heart, therein resides a warrior."

He frowned. "The heart is just a muscle. It pumps blood."

Olwen's lips twitched into a smile. "You are more than muscle and blood, and more than your mind. If you don't believe in your warrior's heart, have faith in your fighter's spirit." From where it leaned against the trunk of a tree, he heaved his maul onto his shoulder. "Let us rescue your friends, thinker, before the forest has its way with them."

* * *

Cressida's eyes snapped open, heart hammering. Wherever she was, it was dark; she strained to make sense of what she saw in the shifting shadows. It appeared she was in a kind of hut. Her skull still ached with a vengeance. Darkness shot in around the edge of her vision.

From what she knew about head injuries and the numbness in her own body, Cressida feared she may be paralyzed. Swallowing down the urge to vomit, she began to test each body part. Moving up from her feet to her hands, she discovered she laid in a bed of furs. She froze - that wasn't very prisoner-like.

A crack of light materialized in the gloom, growing into a swathe as a door in the hut wall was pushed open. Cressida scrambled back, painfully aware of her swordless belt. A tall figure stood, looking down at her.

"A chuisle." It was a woman's voice, honeyed with warmth. She came closer, closing the door behind her. "I am so happy to see you."

The woman knelt, one hand holding a bowl of what seemed like stew, the other reaching up to push back a bright red strand of hair that had escaped an intricate braid. Cressida's stomach did a little flip, mist gathering in her eyes.

"You're her, aren't you?" She couldn't seem to speak above a whisper. "You're Sybil."

The woman's lips pulled into a wide smile, her brown eyes like melted chocolate. "So you do remember me. I did not know if you would." A tear slipped down Cressida's cheek, and Sybil caught it with a gentle swipe. "Why do you weep, a chuisle?"

Cressida pressed her palms into her eyes. "I thought you were dead. My father -"

Sybil set aside the stew, enveloping Cressida into a hug that felt like home. "I know, sweet girl, I know. But it will all be alright now. The gods have brought you back to me."

Cressida wanted nothing more than to keep her face buried in Sybil's shoulder forever, to stay curled up and protected. For the first time since she came to the Order, she felt loved. She felt safe, and that reminded her just how untrue that was. With a jolt, she pushed back from the red-haired woman.

"The others - where are they?"

Sybil's motherly smile faded into one much grimmer.

This time, she said it with force. "Where are my friends?"

* * *

Olwen was surprised. He and Matthias had made good time, even with the boy's shorter strides. What he lacked in height and endurance, he made up for in grim determination. That hard line of his mouth had not once changed since they left camp. If there was anything Olwen admired, it was loyalty.

When they'd made it to a clearing with the press of offensive magic in the air and scorch marks upon the earth, it was obvious their wayward soldiers had the misfortune of running into a number of Gifted. Olwen crouched low, allowing a handful of dirt to fall between his fingers. Behind him, Matthias seemed to be more troubled.

"The assassin wasn't supposed to be a Gifted. This was...this was someone else."

"Yes." Olwen stood, turning on his heel. He peered into the darkness of the ever-thickening forest ahead of them. "I've heard of a village - Freeclan - who commonly associate with Gifted. They believe helping them grants favor with the spirits of the mountain. They hunt Order soldiers."

Matthias sucked in a mouthful of air. "And do what?"

"Sacrifice them."

* * *

Sybil took her to Greer first. She was in a different hut, this one filled with swinging ropes of herbs and shelf after shelf lined with clay spots.

"Greer." Cressida got on her knees beside the sleeping girl, her dark hair pulled back into a braid that mirrored Cressida's own - Sybil must have done it. What snagged her attention the most, though, was the twisting zigzag of pink scarring dancing over her friend's jaw and down her neck. It reminded her of a tree or vines; it was beautiful, in a destructive way.

Sybil put a light hand on Cressida's shoulder. "It is never a good idea to take a bolt of lightning to the face."

She shrugged away from Sybil's grasp. "That Gifted did it to her."

"That Gifted," said the dark woman emerging from the corner, "is the only one fixing this little soldier up." She flipped a veil of dreadlocks back behind her, leaning down to trail her fingers across Greer's scar. "Pretty." She grinned at Cressida. "The scar isn't bad either."

"Get away from her." She took a step closer.

Sybil's hand came back, and this time she wasn't so gentle. "Cressida, Omaria is helping your friend."

Her braid nearly flipped Sybil in the face when she spun. "She's the one who did it to her."

The older woman's gaze was even. "Yes, which means she is best suited to undo the damage she has caused."

"Or finish the job!"

"I won't allow that to happen. I promise that to you, a chuisle."

Cressida took a deep breath. She wasn't about to leave Greer in the care of some maniac, but she was outnumbered. "Where is Leon?"

The other woman smiled a bit teasingly. "Your boyfriend?"

Despite the situation, Cressida still felt her cheeks warming. "Did he say that?"

"No," Sybil laughed, "but he screamed about you until he had to...take a nap."

Cressida righted herself, squaring her shoulders. "Take me to him."

She'd assumed he'd be sleeping in a bed of pelts somewhere. She did not expect to find him and Killian tied to a blackened pole in the center of the village. Like Sybil said, Leon slumbered, a crease in his forehead even in sleep, his wrists chained above him. Killian's rattled as he craned to see who'd pushed through the crowd standing about.

"Look who's finally come." His eyes were absolutely murderous, and he didn't blink as blood dripped into his vision from a deep gash that ran through his eyebrow. "I don't suppose you're going to finish our mission?"

Cressida followed his line of sight, realizing with a start he wasn't glaring at her. Behind the crowd of Freeclaners, the white-blonde elf girl stood out like a sore thumb. Beside her, a very tall, very bearded man lounged against a hut, an ax on each side.

From the largest hut, a woman emerged, her eyes blacked out with deep blue powder, and she was almost completely naked, save for the rough paint that covered her quite muscular body. She was the tallest woman Cressida had ever seen in her life.

The crowd parted for her like trees bending to a strong wind. She came to stand in front of the pole. Someone handed her a torch.

In a loud voice, the woman, head tossed back, bellowed, "Let us see how outsiders burn!"

* * *

A/N: So I want to have another chapter up by Friday but that isn't a solemn vow by any means lol. I really, really appreciate how wonderful my readers are - you guys are so understanding! It's hard to write, you know, but I think everyone gets that. It's made easier when you have amazing people like yourselves supporting you.

This chapter is shorter but I love leaving you on cliffhangers so it had to be done. If everything pans out, things should really be ramping up these next few chapters.

Anyway, please tell me your lovely thoughts! I'll see you guys soon with another update.

(Btw, I do not know what's up with the missing line breaks between sections. I don't know what it looks like on your end but I repeatedly put them in and they will not show up. I'm sorry about that if you're also experiencing this issue.)


	7. Sign of the Times

_**Freeclan meeting hall, the night of the outsiders' capture**_

Meetings between Freeclans tribes were more like pub fights—someone was bound to end up with missing teeth and a bad headache. Some were meant for meager weddings and pairings, others for rites and choosing days.

This night, in particular, was urgent.

News of the captured trespassers spread like wildfire across the mountains. Rumors sparked anger and curiosity, prompting the use of the Dachaigh dha na diathan in nearly two decades.

It was a mead hall, rich-history engraved in its oak walls and stone flooring. For the first time its seats were filled and halls filled with voices, lit pyres bringing its decorated murals to life. Greater seats of stone were positioned in a ring, each piece carved by every tribe. Of course, the eldest of the tribes found this comforting in a way, as if the very seats brought them closer to their ancestors.

There was the Stor Bjorn, Skalle av Jormungandr, Bioráin an Chirt, and the Fánaíochta Abhann. All were on relatively good terms save for the Stor Bjorn and Skalle av Jormungandr—disputes typically turned violent between the two.

"Dè na h-amadan a bha a 'smaoineachadh sin anns an uinneag ùr!?" Athol the Berserker, chief of the Skalle av Jormungandr, spoke, voice muffled by an ox skull. "Na deamhan gu h-àrd, a bheil sinn air a bhith cianail?"

"Language, Athol!" Warchieftain Solmund shouted. "This is why we prefer Jawhunter over you, old man."

"We must focus on what's important, Solmund," Farel Greytooth spoke, the direwolf beside him snarling. "This… group. They came with our blood—a Stor Bjorn man. My heart tells me to see this as betrayal, and yet the crow whisper of him as a sla—"

"A Stor Bjorn?" Ragna av Halvorsen questioned, curiosity piqued. "What did the crow say exactly, Farel?"

"Badb screams, she does not simply speak, Halvorsen. A mess, it was—garbled, jumbled. Angry," said Farel, murmuring. "This one was tall. Giant, and yet the offspring of mortals. That was all I heard before the screeching started again."

Solmund leaned forward in his seat, wondering why this 'Stor Bjorn' exile sounded so…familiar.

"And what of captured?" said Athol, speaking in broken common. "Sacrifice captured? Keep captured? What should Jormungandr do? I have best men—best berserkers! Make captured example to tribe!"

"Encroaching on Sybil's territory? She is fierce like a mother bear, and even plucking a hair from one of her cubs will mean death upon us all," Farel warned. "Outsiders took all she had, and you want to further open that wound, Athol?"

Farel stood, tattered tunic slipping from his shoulders.

"I have seen what they possess below the mountains. Through the crow-mother's eyes and wolf's ears I know what they could bring, Athol," he growled, unafraid of the gasps directed as his own tattoos. "They tore Sybil away from her family. Outsiders burned the villages and murdered our Old Gods. If it were up to me, I'd throw them to the wolves and allow them to sort the situation."

The mead hall erupted into a cacophony of agreement and disagreement, the clans at odds with each other.

"But Badb spoke of another, of another one of our own. The outsiders returned with her in their ranks," he continued. "I see that as payment for mistakes once made. But it is not my call. Sybil may be the chief of the warriors, but she is not chieftain. It will be up to Shaman Nathaira whether they live or be sacrificed to the gods."

Dachaigh dha na diathan fell silent, the sound of crackling wood overtaking the whispers of the hall.

Sighing, Solmund nodded, sitting up in the chair.

"I'll take the best of my warriors to find this supposed exile. I want to see this Stor Bjorn man myself," he announced. "And what of you, Ragna?"

"I'll try and speak to Nathaira myself," Ragna said, blinking. "If it weren't for Skogr, she would've been in this chair. Might as well give her the satisfaction of seeing me without a sword."

"Then it's settled?" Athol cocked his head. "We… we save captured? Save outsiders?"

"Something like that. Yes," Farel agreed. "If things go wrong, should I send—"

"For fuck's sake, Farel, no more bears!" Someone shouted from the crowd, laughter erupting from tables. The druid rolled his eyes, grabbing his tunic from the ground.

"It is decided!" Ragna said, voice booming. "Go forth to your villages! None shall return to Dachaigh dha na diathan unless the horn sounds!"

While there were complaints, each clan took what mead they could and stood from their tables, flooding the outside halls and grounds. Athol spoke to himself as he left, followed by the protectors of his own clan, all wary of echoes and sudden yelps.

Farel prepared to leave, only to find that his companion had disappeared from his post. He searched and searched, eyes hoping to pinpoint a trace of fur. Turning, Farel saw the wolf; his head rested on a weeping Solmund's lap, hoping to comfort the chieftain.

"Spirits," Ragna muttered, placing a hand on the chief's shoulder. "I've never seen the man break down like this."

"Neither have I," replied Farel, kneeling. "What is wrong, bear-father?"

"My son," Solmund spoke, breath shaky. "The last message I received from his hawk. He spoke of these lux-worshipers and… and how he feared they'd take him. What… what if they brought him? My son? My poor boy?"

The remaining chiefs kept silent, the still mood turning solemn within the circle. Farel saw into Solmund's head, gazing upon memories of a small, pink-faced toddler growing into a young man.

The scent of pine. Runes. Protests against the sword. A last goodbye from son to father.

"I—" hesitating, Farel sat, trying to find the proper words to say. "I'm so sorry, Solmund. I never knew you—"

"Jorunn and I nearly gave up on trying for a child. My son was a gift from the gods themselves, I swear," Solmund breathed. "Do…do you think this man could be… could be my son?"

"Those who go below the mountain rarely come back, Solmund. This could be another person entirely," Ragna said. "And yet if I were in your place, I would not give up hope. Maybe these outsiders know of him?"

"Yes, that… that could be true," replied Solmund. "I'll—"

"No, Solmund. I'll see if Badb can find this man," Farel offered. "For now, go home. Go back to Jorunn and rest, friend. You look like you haven't slept in nearly days."

Chuckling slightly, Solmund struggled to stand, drained emotionally by the rush of buried memories.

"Aye. I will," he agreed. "Let's just hope things go smoothly by first light tomorrow."

* * *

 _ **Freeclan village, present**_

Perhaps Lux was a cruel bitch and life's suffering was a game. From where Killian was sitting, on crushed bone and burnt remains, chained to a pole, surrounded by a horde of bloodthirsty savages - since when did Testroyvans like Gifted, anyway? - it all seemed a little comical. It could have been the blunt force trauma speaking, though.

The crowd began chanting, the large painted overlord woman cheering them on, waving the torch around like a flag. Cressida had frozen, the expression on her face resembling that of a rabbit in a snare. The red-haired woman beside her placed a hand on her arm.

There was no such thing as luck, good or bad, but Killian was starting to believe in karma. Tied here for the entirety of the night, there hadn't been much to do besides thinking - well, and pointlessly fantasize about escape and murder - and he was starting to think that maybe, just maybe, this fate was deserved.

Either that, or life was a painful clusterfuck without sense, without meaning, but he choose to believe that his death had to be for a reason. Serving the Order was his calling, and if anyone asked him he would say he would gladly give his life for it, but not now. Not now.

And where were they? His Order, his brothers and sisters-in-arms, he'd given them everything. Was the reward for a life of service a fiery death? What victory was there in this?

The giantess put the flame to the ground. It danced and leaped, following a path of black oil, running around and around, looping and coiling. It was some sort of symbol, Killian managed to note. The heat was on his back. It didn't hurt yet.

Cressida was screaming and kicking, but she was wasting her time - the two men who held her were much bigger, much stronger. The Gifted woman had her eyes closed. The elf was gone, disappeared inside a hut. The boy Killian tackled the day before looked sick, the pale one beside him showing nothing. He wanted to be like him; he hoped that's what his face showed - nothing, a calm, an acceptance.

But that's not how he felt. He closed his eyes.

The first shock of pain erupted across his back. The sleeves of his shirt went up, the fire sizzling across his flesh. It was hot, so, so hot, and only then did it really occur to him - I am burning. The smell was sickeningly familiar.

This used to be victory. Holy flame, cleansing, purifying. Offerings made to the gods, but all the gods offered was pain. They did not listen, nor heed prayers. Killian was being unmade, and he believed a world with nothing in the heavens was preferable to this one - a world under a sky filled with monsters which worship did not appease.

He hoped Leon never woke up.

* * *

Kamil held no love for the Order, but this was a little much. He was here for an assassination, not human sacrifice. The heat from the flames pressed against his face, and he wished he hadn't been standing so close.

"This is sick." Kamil tried to step back, but the bodies around him made it impossible.

Arren didn't bother looking at him. "This is what they do to us."

He knew that. Rationally. But that didn't make it less wrong, did it? Both sides burning each other, hunting each other. It would never end, not until one of them - or both - were eradicated off the earth.

The unconscious one was lucky, and not only because he wasn't aware of what was happening to him. He was chained to the other side of the pole, away from the flames; only his hands were burnt. The other...

Kamil turned his face away. There was no screaming; well, other than the Order girl and the jeering of the Freeclaners around them.

He spoke too soon. Over the not quite deafening roar of the fire, there was a screech that could only be described as unnatural. Kamil looked back in time to see many Testroyvans ducking their heads, shielding themselves from a huge crow.

"Rest easy, Badb." The crow swooped low and circled back, floating down to the waiting arm of a man adorned in a tunic that hung in shreds. His hair was matted in braids, his eyes razing across the crowd, one of them a milky white. "She does not like the fire." With the arm unoccupied by the fowl, the man motioned toward the burning pit with the Order soldiers. His hand clenched into a fist - the flames died down to ash.

The Shaman woman, Nathaira her people called her, marched towards him, brandishing the torch like a club. "Farel Vrágîson, you intrude upon my land, and ruin my gift to the Gods."

Farel cocked his head. Behind, the crowd was being pushed aside. A woman, flanked on each side by warriors Kamil hoped he would never have to face in any sort of situation, stepped forward. One of them had a war hammer whose end was bigger than his skull, and that was saying something. The woman, who obviously had some sort of status, wore no weapon, unlike every other one of her people gathered here.

"Nathaira, always with a nose for trouble. Would you sacrifice one of our own?"

Nathaira scowled. "What nonsense speak you, Ragna. These outsiders trespassed onto my territory."

Ragna smiled a faint, cold smile. "They have been marked a friend by one of our own. It is the same thing." She inclined to the large red-head beside her, the one with the war hammer. "Lost of son of Stor Bjorn, Olwen Jørmund, what say you?"

Kamil realized with a jolt this giant must know the Order soldiers, and judging by the look on his face - pure, frigid rage - the situation had suddenly changed out of Nathaira's favor.

The strange one with the bird, Faral, leaned close to Olwen, speaking in a soft tone. "It is a grievous insult, Lost Son, one befitting of death." He pointed a long finger to the pole. "A life for a life."

Olwen's forehead creased. "He is not dead."

By some miracle.

Nathaira paced, her body tensed as if she were preparing for an attack. "You cannot kill me. There is a prophecy. Sybil, come!"

Kamil and Arren shared a look. They knew of this prophecy already - it was the sole reason they were standing here, the sole reason Omaria had not butchered the Hunter where he stood. Craning about, he realized Omaria had not been present for the sacrifice. Strange indeed. She seemed the type to take any chance to witness misfortune fall to the Order.

Bearing a grim expression, Sybil came forward at her summons. She dipped her chin slightly to Ragna and Farel.

"Tell me, piuthar, of this so-called prophecy." Even his bird seemed to lean towards Sybil, its black eyes gleaming with the interest of its master's one good one.

Sybil took in an audible breath, appearing to steel herself to speak the words. "I dream of destruction, Farel Vrágîson - of your death, of the deaths of all our people. There is a darkness that shall come to pass, culled up from depths unfathomable by the hand of the Goddess of light. In the shadows, she seeks the keys of our desolation, and they shall be brought to her by the dark hearts of her faithful. If she is not stopped, there will be wrath upon all the world."

Feral looked to Ragna, Ragna looked to Nathaira. "Dark and terrible, Nathaira, but I heard no mention of you."

Nathaira stood a little taller. "Agents of the gods came to me. They knew of my sympathy to Mortabela's children, who are this unholy Lux's enemy; they seek help - forces in the days to come. " Her shoulders were straightened, and she sauntered around the blackened pole where the Order soldiers were still chained, still breathing. "I say yes. I say I will help them. Would you keep me from this purpose, oh mighty Halvorsen?"

They stood eye to eye, both powerful women, both sizing the other up. There was no movement at all until Feral made a slight motion of his wrist. One of Ragna's warriors ran Nathaira through, the tip of his broadsword showing through her back. Her body fell to the ground, dust kicking up around it. The crowd gasped; out of all the many warriors in her clan, none of them came to her aid.

Olwen's lips pressed into a hard line. "Death is not always the answer."

Feral appeared unabated. "If this prophecy is truth, " he turned to Sybil, expression unreadable, "Death is fast-coming. We will take the news back to Dachaigh dha na diathan. Olwen, you should return with us - your absence has cut your father to the bone."

Olwen ducked his head. "I would want nothing more, but I must stay here," His gaze went to the Order girl with the braided hair. She looked to him with pleading eyes, "And tend to the wounded."

Feral clasped Olwen's broad shoulder. "The mountain smiles on your return, bràthair."

Olwen did the same. "Thank you, Feral."

Feral's smile turned playful. "You best collect your skinny outsider from my wolf, lest he becomes hungry."

"I will, as soon as I see to the other...outsiders."

Ragna gestured to one of her men with a massive horn slung across his back. He swung it around and blew into it, the sound ringing throughout the village and into the trees, a signal for something.

"Back to Dachaigh dha na diathan," sighed Ragna. "Time to fight over who shamans the village. And talk of destruction."

As the party departed, Omaria slunk up behind Kamil, transversing between the hulking bodies easily. He jumped.

"What now?" He asked her.

Her face was blank, a little bored, a little disappointed. "We wait. Sybil and I will call upon our Mistress tonight. She'll judge the prophecy true. Or not."

"And if it's not?"

Her eyes seemed to light up at that. "We'll finish what we came here to do."

"And if it is true," Arren sang-song lightly, "The world will end."

* * *

A/N:

Chapter Q&A, speed-round: Greer is still unconscious, after the meeting Feral sent Badb to hunt for Olwen - she found him and Matthias in the woods, Matthias is being babysat by Feral's direwolf (what a laugh), and Killian and Leon are not dead. Hopefully now no one's confused. Oh, Feral is not a Gifted; his abilities are druidic.

End of the world prophecies - that's always fun. Also, the first section of this chapter was written by my co-author Kai. Credit where it is due.

Tell me your lovely opinions, and like always I'll see you next time!


	8. Certain of Uncertainty

The last thing he remembered clearly was Cressida being taken. When Leon awoke to stare into her endless blue eyes, wide with concern, the relief that crashed through him made it easier to breathe - a weight being lifted from his chest.

He lurched up, only then made aware of how much pain had found a home in his body and how much time had passed to allow that to come about. It didn't matter. Only she mattered, the visible tear tracks on his cheeks.

Her hands came to rest on his jaw. "I thought you were going to die."

Underneath the telltale scent of smoke, she still smelled familiar, like the closest thing Leon had to home. "I thought you were dead."

"And yet, you're both still very much alive.''

It was the tall red-head who took Cressida away, the one who put him to sleep, loitering in the corner. She cradled a delicate green potion in her hands.

Leon started to pull himself away. "You–"

Cressida tightened her grip. Over her shoulder, the woman held eye-contact with an even gaze. "I apologize for what happened here, Leon. For what it counts, I gave no orders. The one who did…is no longer a threat to you. I hope you can see past this. For Cressida's sake."

He didn't care for the phrase "for Cressida's sake." As if this random Testroyvan Gifted held some sway over her.

He looked to Cressida, her unsmiling face showing her troubled thoughts clearly enough. "She's telling you the truth. She helped heal you, she and Ailith."

Lowering his voice, he tried to speak with as much gentleness as he could. "She's a Gifted, Cress–"

"I know that." She sighed. "But please, just." She turned around. "Sybil, can you leave us for a moment?"

The woman - Sybil, apparently - dipped her chin in surrendered agreement. She placed the potion on a shelf lining the wall. "For your pain." With that, she backed out of the hut, but not before shooting Leon a warning look. He probably wore a similar expression.

"Leon?"

He fixed his gaze back on Cressida, trying to shake any and all feelings of hostility produced by this Sybil. It was obvious she held some importance to her, whether he liked it or not. "Yes?"

She glanced down, working her lower lip between her teeth – a habit he knew she'd adopted when overthinking things. Finally, her gaze again met his with a renewed determination. "Screw it."

He raised his eyebrows. "Screw wha–"

And she kissed him.

If he said he'd never thought – dreamt, fantasized, longed – for this moment, he'd be a bald-faced liar, but his mind never once conjured up the assumption they'd be in the hut of a Gifted after being kidnapped by angry giants. Whose hostile camp they were now in. This was dangerous, they were distracted, and where were the others?

The noise that came from Leon's throat might've been embarrassing if he was in the state of mind to care or notice. There were other girls, other kisses, but there was always a distinct un-Cressidaness about them that made the encounters deeply disappointing.

Her lips were moving against his, her eyes, those beautiful eyes, were closed. But his weren't and this was forever scarred onto them. Gods, she looked like an angel. He felt bad for all the people who never got to see her this close and jealous of all the people who had.

This was so much more than a kiss to him. He hated to end it but he had to let her know, let her know that – "I've loved you since we were kids."

He hadn't meant to blurt it out that way, but now it was out, where it wasn't kicking around in his head, where she could hear it.

"Leon," she leaned back, "I–"

He held up his hands, discovered that they didn't look so good, and put them back down. "Please, let me finish. When they took you," he swallowed, "It dawned on me that I could not lose you, not like that, not before I told you how I really felt. So before we go back to the Order, and who-knows-what happens next – I love you, Cressida.'' Leon closed his eyes, only to open them back up. He was terrified of her reaction, but he had to see it. "And I don't know if it's fair for me to tell you all this, or how you feel…I. I hope I haven't ruined our friendship." He realized he was rambling. "Because you're my best friend, and I also want you to know that. Good Lux, say something."

Gently, Cressida took his hands, careful not to press the damaged skin. "I care about you, Leon." She gave him a wane smile. "You're my best friend too, and I'm so happy you told me how you feel, even though I'm scared of the L-word because all that speculating was driving me crazy." She looked down to their joined hands. "But I'm not going back to the Order. I don't think you should either."

He was pretty sure he felt all the color drain out of his face. "Cressida, you don't mean–" He shook his head. "We'd be traitors."

The set of her jaw told him she knew that, and she didn't care. "Things have changed. There's a prophecy about Lux bringing about the end of the world – the end of the world, Leon."

He removed his hands from hers. "Did Sybil tell you this prophecy?"

"This isn't about Sybil. I know you don't like her –"

"This isn't about what I like. The Order raised us, Cressida, they made us everything we are. Don't we owe loyalty to them at least?"

It was the wrong thing to say. She stood up so fast his neck was hurting. "Murderers and fanatics making the same out of stolen children you mean?"

Leon rubbed his temples. This was not the time for this to be happening. He wasn't about to betray his Order for the ravings of a Gifted, not today, not tomorrow. Surely, some of the others wouldn't either. "Where's Killian?"

Some of the ire in her face faded into something slightly more guilty. Leon struggled to his feet, ignoring her outstretched hand. "What happened to him?"

* * *

For the first time in his life, Matthias felt truly and completely bad for Killian. Up until a few hours ago, he'd been feeling pretty crappy for himself – being left with a furious creature by a giant ( always more giants, it seems) makes one sit back and ponder their life choices. Also, crows were startingly sentient.

A nasty wheeze from Killian had Matthias wincing. The warrior was laid out on top of a table, face-down so Greer, Olwen, and a disconcerting number of Gifted could pluck around on the angry, blistered skin that was the back of his body. Also, the assassin was helping, which made Matthias twitchy; he was keeping an eye on that one. Really, he was keeping tabs on all of them.

There was Omaria, the Gifted who did not even pretend to be civil. Arren, the sullen - not to sound offensive - very white, boy. And Kamil. The one who kept winking at him. His intentions weren't clear, but Matthias was nearly certain it was just to make him blush and stutter.

Not to mention the assassin. Her name was Ailith, which didn't seem assassin-like in his book. Neither did her silk-soft voice. Matthias hoped he wasn't staring at her ears. There were depictions of elves in books, rumors of them on the Agrian coast, but to see one... Venturing away from the Order had certainly broadened his horizons, to put it euphemistically.

He wanted to pull Greer aside and interrogate her about her own well-being, what with that impressive scar she was sporting. He knew the mark of lightning well, so either there was a pop-up storm that never touched camp, or it was the work of the Gifted. The latter was more probable, and judging current company he wasn't too surprised.

Matthias had to jump out of the way when the door banged open, revealing a slightly crispy Leon, Cressida hot on his heels.

He breathed a sigh of relief. "Leon, is it good to see you."

Leon's eyes were glassy, zeroed in on the commotion in the center of the hut. "Is he going to be alright?"

He didn't know. Medical expertise wasn't his area, but he didn't need advanced skills to see that it was bad. Emotional reassurement also wasn't his area; in this case, he would try. "I'm sure." He tugged his lips into a smile. "It's Killian - the minute we write him off, he'll jump up from there to spite us."

Leon shook his head, a fragile mirth mirroring his own. "You're right, as usual." His gaze suddenly seemed to snag on something, expression going dark. "Is that the assassin?'

Swallowing a lump in his throat, Matthias turned to look. "So it seems." He fixed his attention back on his friend. He spoke slowly, carefully, as not to offend. "But I believe it's best we let this one go. Circumstances have, uh, developed."

Leon bore a stormy look. "What 'circumstances?'"

"There's a prophecy -"

"Don't tell me you believe it."

"It doesn't matter what we believe - what matters is what's true. What's true is decided by evidence, by fact."

"Facts given to us by Gifted? C'mon, Matthias."

Matthias felt a little helpless. It was obvious Leon was disappointed in him, and that wasn't great, but this was a dire situation, one he felt better equipped to handle than his friend. The Order didn't teach one to keep an open mind; books, however, did.

He cleared his throat, squared his shoulders. "The Order, no matter how sacred, is made up of people. People are made up of errors - it's not so mad to think they might be mistaken, perhaps misled. Think of the Legate. He wasn't even going to come for the rest of you, Leon. He was perfectly willing to let you die." He stopped for a breath; Cressida beamed at him with pride. "I'm not sure...I don't think I can be part of an organization that hinges on so much pointless sacrifice."

Leon stood so still, it appeared he wasn't even breathing. The look on his face, one of complete betrayal - Matthias was sure it would haunt him forever.

After a few painful moments, he spoke, voice low and strained, "I had no idea I was friends with so many traitors."

* * *

Through the black, through the fog, she felt a pull, a plea. Beneath her cloak, she cocked her head toward the feeling, letting the whispers rush into her ear. Desperate, eager things, hungry for just a bit of her attention.

Come to me, my children.

She willed it, and it was so. Time and space, distance and height - the very threads of reality meant little to the mother of magic.

"Why do you call, my sweet ravens?"

Before her, her (mostly) loyal servants Sybil and Omaria kneeled, their heads bowed down. She trailed her fingers down each of their necks, catching snatches and snippets of their recent activities.

"Oh," Mortabela hummed, lower lip delicately curling. "Aiding those of Lux, are we? I expected you Sybil, but Omaria..." She tsked, raking her nails into their skin. Neither flinched. "If you haven't come to beg my forgiveness, why did you call?"

T'was Omaria who spoke, the brave girl. "Mistress, we do beg your forgiveness, always, but there is an agent of Naltia who claimes Lux moves to destroy the world, an act surely against your wishes. Sybil herself saw a prophecy of this coming to pass."

She slid a slender finger beneath Sybil's chin, raising her head to see into her eyes. "I do not bestow false visions, Sybil. So little faith?"

She shook her head as much as Mortabela's grip would allow. "I had to be sure, mistress."

"Claim certainty. Where others err, you have me." She let Sybil's head fall. "Lux must be stopped. She wants to purify the world of me," she smiled with wry amusement, "Of my wicked influence. I will not work with the other gods, but there is nary a reason my servants cannot work with theirs. You have my blessing, my children."

"These keys I saw, we need -"

Mortabela stalked away, the darkness slithering around her body like a lover. "Agria," she called out over her shoulder, unbothered to spare them another glance. "I hear the King's Solstice ball is the soiree of a lifetime."

* * *

A/N:

I am the sort of person who feels things very deeply - when I'm at a high-point, I'm better than ever; when I'm at a low-point...let's just say it isn't my finest moment. Depression isn't a state for me, it's more of a boomerang. That aside, I'm feeling a little better now so I thought I'd quickly finish this chapter and upload it on a random Monday. Surprise!

Are the characters going to a fancy Agrian party? Is the group going to break up? Are the Gifted and Order members going to get along? Is Mortabela trustworthy? Is there a future for Leon and Cressida? So many questions raised!

Give me your thoughts and make my night! And as always, I hope to have another installment for you all soon. Hugs and kisses!


	9. Journey to Another Land

The pounding in her head banged out a beat someone could dance to. Greer sucked in her cheeks and ignored it - whatever pain she felt, it was nothing compared to that of Killian. She had no love for him, not really; he was always a pain in the ass for Cressida, but his was a fate she wouldn't wish on anyone. Okay, that was a lie...she still wouldn't wish it on him, though.

They'd done all they could for him. Olwen mixed up a sleeping drought so he could rest, and Ailith - the elven ''assassin'' - applied a salve to his back that smelled strongly of mint and something unrecognizable that conjured the image of fog rolling in over the sea to one's mind.

When Greer asked what it was, the girl tucked a lock of electric blonde hair behind her pointed ear and smiled a sad sort of smile. "A piece of home."

It was a familiar feeling, the longing for a home. The sensation was made sharper by longing for a home you never had. The closest thing was her friends. Long ago, after word was sent of her birth sister murdering their parents to become one of the Gifted, Greer resolved to hang onto those she loved like a lifeline. There was never a chance to know her biological family, there was no sense in mourning them either. All she could do was protect her chosen ken, and in her mind, her true family.

Earlier, Cressida walked right up to her, eyes fiery and chin raised. "I'm not going back to the Order. I don't care if I'll be a traitor. What they do - what they made us do - is wrong." She lost some of her steel then, fidgeting with her hands. "I can't sleep at night, Greer. I've murdered people. How is that holy? It's what the Gifted do, and somehow we're supposed to be better by doing the same thing? I'm sick of it. I can't do it, won't do it. I'm not going back."

Greer knew the guilt Cressida was feeling. She'd had the same doubts, the same worries, but who wants to admit their entire life was a lie? Even Matthias, always the logician, could see the truth in it. He wasn't going back either.

Squaring her shoulders, she took a deep breath, confident in her resolve, and when Leon called them traitors it didn't punch her in the gut with the force she'd have thought it would. The choice was easy. Greer would fight for her family. She would go to the ends of the earth for them. She'd even take on Lux herself and seeing as how things were turning out it looked like she would have to.

It wasn't too far a leap, really. For centuries, Mortabela had been the scapegoat of the gods, but it'd never seemed realistic for only one of them to be ''evil." Perhaps Lux wasn't. Perhaps they were all heretics. Until the goddess herself could come to explain otherwise, Greer was going to do what she thought was right. She'd never liked the Avatar anyway.

They were outside by the fire. Sybil, in terse sounding foreign words, presumably told the villagers to leave them be. The large folk went about their business, eying the ''outsiders'' but keeping a clear buffer between. So far, no one bothered them, or even spoke to them, except for a little girl who brought them bowls of stew, head down and gaze cast away. Settled in-between Matthias and Cressida, Greer thanked her anyway.

"This is amazing," Matthias barely got out between gulps, "I hadn't eaten in over a day."

Someone was not enjoying the fair as much as their curly-headed compatriot, and it was noticeable. "Cressida," Greer nudged her shoulder, "What's the matter?"

She focused on her uneaten stew with intensity. "Nothing."

Greer and Matthias exchanged a glance. "Is it Leon?" he asked.

She was silent.

"Maybe he'll come around?" Greer tried to stay on the optimistic side of things, when she could. "Not even he could support a deity that wants to make ash of the world."

"He won't believe it,'' she mumbled, passing the meaty-scented stew over to Matthias. "If a Gifted says it, it must be heresey."

Matthias took the wooden bowl happily. "But Mortabela herself confirmed, correct? Yes, she's a dark goddess and all that, but if anyone could fact-check a prophecy it would be her."

The blue-eyed girl gave him a sarcastic look, the effect not at all weakened by the dancing shadows cast by the fire. "He won't entertain the ideas of a Gifted, but he'll believe their unarguably worse mistress? Right."

Greer blew air out through her nose. "Then screw him. I like Leon, but if you can't change his mind, no one can. If he really loved you, he wouldn't try to change your fundamental beliefs."

"So she can try to change his?" Matthias tsked, shaking his head. "This is why you shouldn't attempt romance amidst a holy war. It's the first casualty. Well, that and innocence."

Abruptly, Cressida stood, beelining toward the hut Greer knew to be Sybil's.

"Cressida!" Greer also stood, peering around the lofty Testroyvans milling about. "Cressida, wait!"

"Let her go." Matthias released a long sigh, bowl set aside in favor of messaging his temples. "People need space to process their icky emotions."

Ignoring his advice, Greer made to follow her, but someone caught her arm.

"Matthias," she whirled, "So help me–"

The dark woman grinning back at her was the last person she expected to see. "Apologies, my hair isn't that curly and doubtfully could ever be, but my conversation is just as stimulating." Her palm slid down Greer's arm until it reached her hand, which she took and brought to her lips. "Omaria."

Greer was a bit taken aback. People (i.e. women) didn't usually flirt with her so brazenly, especially not Gifted people.

The first thing that popped out of her mouth, however, was not a smooth reply. "You're the one that ruined my face."

The other woman - Omaria - laughed, her sharp eyes sparkling. There was not a hint of abatement present in her features. "A face like yours could hardly be ruined." She tilted her head, presumably to look at the scar in debate. "I only gave you a bit of character."

"I'll be sure to remember that when I'm applying the burn salve to dull the pain."

"If it's relief you seek, I could do a bit better than some salve."

The ever-present, unpleasant tingling of her jaw made it tempting, but Greer felt as if she had some line to hold. "I think you've done quite enough. I'm sure Killian would appreciate that and more, though."

With that, she turned on her heel, unsure of whether she was more intent on checking on her friend or escaping that strange flirtation.

From over her shoulder, Omaria called in a musical voice, "No doubt, but my touch is much more gentle where the fairer sex is concerned. Come see me when you tire of trailing someone who has eyes only for a soldier boy."

Greer hurried on with a slight shake of her head. She didn't have those feelings for Cressida, not anymore. And even if she did, which she didn't, nothing would cost her their friendship.

* * *

There's a period of confusion when first waking after up after not being awake for some time. Confusion doesn't do it justice. There's an awareness, not of your surroundings or your body, but of your mind. There's an emptiness, a calmness – you could be dead, for all you knew.

Through the fog and ebb of his barely conscious mind, Killian rejected death, this false peace. Beneath its surface, a prickling familiarity blossomed – pain. Like a man in quicksand, he latched onto it, heaving himself away from that wretched blanket of black.

On the table, he lurched up, breath coming in the same erratic clamber as his heart. Supporting his weight on his arms, he felt the stretch and pull of the flesh on his back. The pain was no longer his ally, it seemed; he nearly threw up.

"You're not supposed to be awake."

His head snapped in the direction of the voice. Against a wall braided with herb garland, the elf stood turned away from him, her hands busy with a mortar and pestle. The scent of whatever she crushed wafted around the meager space, something poignant and foresty.

"How are you feeling?"

Nearly dead. Seared. Emotionally numb, and not to forget the big one – completely vexed.

"Fantastic." His voice sounded like how rough stone felt. In quick, jerky movements, he swung his feet to the floor. The world blurred.

The elf didn't deign to turn around, her stance relaxed as she continued her work. She seemed to believe he was no threat to her in this state. "You're godtouched. You should have died from shock."

With much trepidation, he tested standing without leaning against the table. "I'm not alive because of the gods."

Her tone wasn't argumentative, simply resigned. "We're all alive because of the gods."

Walking was now one of the most excuriating things he'd ever done. "If I were to kill you right here, the gods wouldn't stop me."

Her movements ceased, perhaps sensing how close he'd managed to come. Slowly, she turned to face him, chin raised. Again, he couldn't help but notice how her irises seemed to glow. There was no fear in them.

"Who were you, Killian, before they handed you a sword and taught you to kill?"

He swallowed, stamping down that feeling. She had no moral leverage to beat him with. "I am what I made myself. There isn't anyone else."

"You can change, everyone can–"

"There's no point.'' His hands slapped the wall on either side of her head, and he kept them there, leaning closer. "You can't take back the destruction you've caused, you can only continue it."

She didn't flinch. "That's not what you really believe."

"Yeah? Knowing someone's beliefs part of your elfy abilities?"

"You're in pain, Killian; anyone could see it."

He laughed low in his throat. "I am. I was burnt alive.''

"Don't be obtuse. Now, please move." she raised a hand to push him away, but he caught it. Her eyebrow raised slowly.

Killian met her challenging stare. In all honesty, he didn't know what he was going to do next, or even what he wanted to do. Luck was on his side, for once, and he was saved from any poor decision-making by the door to the hut banging open.

It was Leon. Relief blossomed across his face, followed by bemusement. "You're up." His eyes flicked to the pale, small hand Killian still held in his grasp.

Clearing his throat, he stepped away, all-too-ready to rest his weight against the edge of the table. She leaned back against the wall, arms folding over her chest.

Leon, with a distrustful glance directed toward the elf, entered the room. "There's been a few developments. The others…the others have decided not to return to the Order. We'll be going back alone. I'd hate to hear what Megalos told the Avatar, if he even made it back."

He couldn't claim to be too surprised. The only shock was that Cressida hadn't defected sooner; it wasn't such a stretch she convinced Greer and Matthias to listen to her.

Shrugging, he tried to ignore the way half his body felt like an open wound. "When can we leave?"

Leon hesitated. "It'll be morning in a few hours."

The elf pushed off the wall. "You're in no shape to go anywhere."

Killian regarded her with a level gaze. "As much as I appreciate the advice, elf –"

She looked cross. "My name is Ailith."

He smiled sweetly. "Ailith, you don't happen to know where I can find a pair of pants?"

She crossed the threshold of the hut, shooting him a dirty look over her shoulder.

Leon looked at him strangely. "What?"

"Just glad to see you've returned to your old self."

Killian had a bad taste in his mouth at that. He pasted nonchalance over his features, stomach tied in knots. "Nothing a good night's sleep couldn't fix."

* * *

"If it's relief you seek," he mocked with a grin, "I could do better than some salve."

Omaria rolled her eyes, not even bothering to take a bit of her attention away from rolling up her pack to give it to him. "Shut it, Arazi."

Kamil held his up his hands, palms out. "Hey, no judgment. I'm only surprised. I assumed you hated everything and anyone having to do with the Order."

With practiced movements, she cinched the straps. "I do, but if Mortabela wishes us to travel alongside them, then I may as well take advantage of any pleasant situation."

His grin turned lopsided. "Yes because all grand romances start by someone taking advantage."

She threw the pack over her shoulder. "Romance is for fools like you. Now get your things together."

With jaunty little movements, he saluted her. "Aye aye, captain. You know, with a mindset like that, your life is going to be awfully lonely."

Omaria stopped in the doorway. "I tried love on once before. It didn't fit."

"Love isn't a garment."

"Yes,'' she agreed, "It's a death sentence."

From the corner, Arren yawned lazily, blinking sleep away. "Speaking of death sentences, how exactly are we going to get into the palace at Guele d'Or du Lion? They're not going to let a bunch of Gifted and washed up Sacred Order soldiers in."

Kamil and Omaria shared a look like it was obvious. "Magic."

The portal was open and ready and swirling. It appeared like a misty blue vortex, ripping a hole into the serene imagery of the forest, right where they'd left it.

The one with curly-hair, Matthias, audibly gulped. "You expect us to get in there? What if it's a trap?"

Kamil had a shit-eating grin, per usual. "The mystery is half the fun. What's life without intrigue?"

"More survivable." Arren deadpanned.

Greer placed a hand on Matthias' arm, steadying him. "It's okay." Louder she said, "The Gifted can just go first."

Omaria met her testing gaze. The corner of her mouth lifted slightly as she let herself be swallowed by the portal. The heat in the air fell over her like a blanket. Behind her, she heard 'ofing' and 'ohing.' Portals tossed you around like salad if you didn't know how to hold yourself.

She took a few paces ahead so they would fall at her feet and not on her. With a condescending smile, Omaria peered down at the pile of disgruntled bodies tangled in the no doubt scorching sand. "Welcome to Agria."

* * *

A/N: Happy Friday the 13th, people!

Romance is in the air, or is it? Leon and Killian went back to the Order, or did they? Most of the group is now in Agria, anyway, off to look for a key. But things are never as simple as they seem...

A little while ago, the amazing Firealis sent me character aesthetics she made for the characters in the story, and they. are. absolutely. amazing! I'll put them below; I really hope they make your day like they did mine. Thank you, Firealis!

 _Olwen is Deep winter. He's warm fires and bright colors from the northern lights. He's starlight and foggy breath and the fresh, crisp cold air. Peppermint and pine trees covered in snow._

 _Leon is a gentle spring. He is chilly mornings and new promises. Grass coated in morning dew and new buds coming up from the earth. Lavender and bright blue skies._

 _Cressida is a fiery summer day. She is endless oceans and childlike laughter. Sunflowers and napping in hammocks. Petrichor. Sun-kissed cheeks._

 _Kamil is a late summer evening. Lightning bugs and humid heat and running around barefoot. Sleeping under the stars and grand views of sunsets off of the mountainside._

 _Greer is autumn. Tricolored leaves falling from trees and thankfulness and being with friends. Cinnamon spice and campfires; the stories told around them._

 _Matthias is a soft winter. Bundled up in blankets. Hot cocoa, and frost on windows. The light that shines off of snow. Bare trees and a pink nose._

 _Omaria would be a stormy spring day. The strong sort of stillness before it hits. The lightning that strikes a nearby tree and the thunder heard from a distance, fierce but calming in an odd way._

 _Killian would be golden summer. Dry, hot heat and fires that plow through in destruction. But it also makes way for growth and brings a new hope._


	10. Dunes of Illusion

Agria was hot, the sun blazing down from the heavens like the wrath of the gods themselves. Olwen trudged along beside the group, sweating like he had never sweat before. Kamil seemed to be in his element, however, taking point with Omaria, a bounce in his step. With that mop of unruly dark hair, Olwen wondered if the intense heat hadn't baked his brain. It would explain such a happy temperament in an environment such as this.

Where were the trees? The water? No wonder the landscape was little but shifting, scorching sand; it looked as if it could sustain nothing else. He did not belong in this place. Briefly, for a moment of respite, he closed his eyes, the light burning brightly through his eyelids just the same.

Being in Testroyva, being in his homeland, seeing and speaking with his people – it had been a kind of torture. He was so close. To his family, his former life, but he could not return yet. He was not a free man. The Legate was no longer present, nor were the fiery ideals of the Order burning through the veins of his companions (of which he was deeply proud), but the invisible shackles remained. By something stronger than moral obligation, Olwen felt bound to this group and to this mission. It was the will of the gods that he continued with them – it demanded to be seen through to the end.

Eying those ahead of him with a sort of weary pity, he wondered what end it would be. Since stepping through the portal, he was overcome with unease. His instincts were always correct before. Not that it had helped avoid tragedy.

Matthias fell in step beside him, dropping back from the pace he kept with Greer and Cressida. His dark curls were slicked to his forehead, but his eyes shone brightly.

"You never spoke to your family, did you?''

Olwen stared ahead, gaze fixed to a horizon that seemed to be ever unchanging. On their journey from the forest to the village, he'd told Matthias some of his story, to pass the time and ease the young warrior's mind. Now he wondered if he'd spoken of it only to ease his own. Unsuccessfully done.

"There was not a chance, but I know it in my heart, I will see them again."

Matthias appeared unimpressed. "You could have stayed. None of us would have tried to stop you."

Pushing the frown from his features, he attempted a lighter countenance. "And leave the rest of you to weather this desert? I would wish this place on no man." His eyes fell on the ones leading the charge: Omaria, Cressida, Greer, Ailith. "Or woman."

"Contrary to popular belief," Matthias cleared his throat, "Agria has a rather rich environment. Not all of it is like this. There are forests, rivers, a plethora of lush oasis – it's quite beautiful. Or, so the literature has depicted. In ancient times, it was referred to as _aljanat_ al'ardia. Earthly paradise."

Olwen squinted at the boy, unable to reconcile such a description with the endless dunes rising up around them. The very air delivered a taste of dryness to one's mouth, and he'd already reflected upon the temperature. But he was not one to doubt.

He opened his mouth to reply when he felt it. A breeze, a caress of the atmosphere that could be described as cool. They came to the top of the dune, a palpable excitement hopping from one individual to the next. Below at a distance that seemed closer than it probably was, a mass of tents rose up from the sand, stark and nearly dizzying in their colors. Verdant greens. Blood red crimsons. Golds. Blues. Rich purples. And the lights.

From every pole, every tether, a string of paper lanterns glowed with a warmth so different from the stifling heat of the desert. The place was alive with it.

Perhaps the most beautiful piece of the scene, or at least to Olwen, was the what lay behind the menagerie of tents. A rippling spring, a splash of wonderful, natural green and blue against the backdrop of sand. After walking all throughout the night (Omaria was a relentless party leader, they'd soon made the unpleasant discovery of), he longed to run to the water and dunk his entire body in.

"Please, gods, don't let that be a mirage."

Olwen felt Greer's sentiment all the way to his bones.

Omaria stood atop the ridge of sand, hands on hips, neck craned down. "That's not a mirage – that's the albahithin ean alsama." The foreign words rolled from her lips like the delicious water below.

Kamil turned, fingers tucked into the straps of his pack. "Seekers of Sky," his lips were twisted into an uncharacteristic frown. "A religious cult."

Matthias pushed a few matted curls from his face, revealing slightly widened eyes. "Are they dangerous?"

"Religious cults are always dangerous," Cressida tsked. "We should know; we've only been in one all our lives."

Olwen noted the bitterness in her voice. Since Leon stayed in the village with Killian and plans of returning to the Order, that had been much the case. He wasn't sure on the extent of their involvement – as was not his place – but they were close. Turning your back on something like that….well, Olwen knew the cut of it. And it never went away, not truly.

Greer placed a hand on the girl's shoulder, silent support.

Behind her scowl, the gears and gizmos in Omara's head seemed to be whirring. She ran her tongue across her teeth. "They don't attack without provocation…they aren't fond of outsiders, either, but we could use them to get to the Gueule d'Or du Lion region."

Beside her, Kamil's wilted composure popped back to life. "Use them how?"

"They are fond of helping innocents," she gave a sardonic sneer. "Godly karma, and all that."

Kamil's dark irises twinkled like the floating lanterns below. "Omari, are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?"

She was deadpan; it pained her to humor him. "What do you think I'm suggesting?"

"Oh, just a little routine Nuri and I like to call 'Get Help.'''

Her sigh was one of deep long-suffering.

Kamil whirled on the group, shrugging off his pack with a flourish. It thumped dully to the sand. "Who wants to be the victim?"

* * *

Sure, Cressida wasn't feeling her best, but if there was anything she was a sucker for, it was hijinks.

Kamil seemed to be of the same mind as he ran his fingers over her face, his own contorted into a look of exaggerated concentration.

He paused his ministrations for a moment, cocking his head toward a brooding Arren. "Not enough blood?"

Arren barely spared a glance before shifting his moody blue gaze back out into the vast expanse. "Too much."

The boy scoffed with offense. "There can never be too much blood, my friend." He froze, shuddering. "Nevermind. I almost scared myself there – look what you've done to me, Omari."

She huffed. "Nothing, yet. You'll see if you don't pick up your unsufferable pace."

"Like you could do better. I am the master of illusion."

She seemed to take that as a challenge, sauntering over to glare down at Cressida's face. Being under her scrutiny was most uncomfortable. And terrifying.

Omaria didn't notice Cressida's discomfort. Either that, or she elected to ignore it, taking her chin with cold fingers and turning her head from side to side. "Oh yes. This is quite novice."

Kamil brought a hand to his chest, mouth agape. "Novice? I'll have you know I had half of Landashi running to my aid with that look." He batted the woman's hands away, nearly catching Cressida in the eye.

Omaria served him up one of her iciest stares. "Is that where you're from? I knew you struck me as rather backwater."

"Ha, no. I'm from Altawbaz Al'azraq."

"Because that's such an improvement." She sniffed, turning her back to him to begin plucking at Cressida's skin. It felt overwhelmingly itchy. "A bruise here, a contusion there…"

Arren appeared at her shoulder. "What? Did she get into a bar fight?" Theatrically, he examined their surroundings. "Where might be one of those? Make it look like sun damage."

Omaria growled at him as he moved closer, intent to do it himself.

"Okay." Cressida jumped up, arms out in surrender. "That's enough."

"Mine was the best," Kamil grumbled, examining whatever mess her face now looked like. She'd forgot to ask how long the glamor lasted.

Running her fingers across her cheeks, down her nose – it felt the same as always. She turned to the rest of the group, who had been waiting patiently and watching wearily. "How do I look?"

Matthias' mouth fell open. Olwen winced. Ailith cringed.

Stoically, Greer supplied, "Like shit."

Cressida felt herself smiling. "Shit will do."

* * *

This was not a situation he ever expected himself to be in. Being captured by the Order had proved again and again that sometimes, you must commit actions you are not entirely comfortable with. Like this, for example.

Cressida tensed in Olwen's arms, head lolled back for dramatic effect. Her features were made nearly unrecognizable by the Gifteds' valiant work. There was blood, there were bruises – her nose was even wracked in another direction. Swallowing, he prayed to Bahar that the "religious cult" – as Omaria had dubbed them – did not assume the evil giant had done it. But this was not Ethrias; perhaps the mindset in addition to the geography was also changed.

He hoped.

Kamil was bouncing lightly beside him. "Okay, it's time. Everyone be wobbly on their feet, and look thirsty."

"That won't be difficult," a disgruntled Matthias said.

Greer eyed the tents below, the buttery glow of their fires burning more brightly as daylight left the desert in increments. She was crouched over the dune, leaning her weight on bent knees. Absently, her fingers reached back and touched her quiver, still full. "Are you certain they'll react hospitably?"

Omaria stood close to her. "Nothing is certain, Greer – never count on the kindness of strangers."

She gave a soft snort. "But on the kindness of passive-aggressive acquaintances?"

The other woman grinned. "I never said I was kind."

Cressida squirmed in Olwen's hold, flailing an arm, one eye cracked open. "Hey – do continue your conversations while my neck is going into rigor mortis."

Matthias frowned over her. "But you're not dead."

Kamil grinned from ear to ear, teeth gleaming white against the fast-settling dusk. "Exactly right. She's almost dead, not very dead, not yet." He turned his glinty gaze to Olwen. "You got this, big guy?"

Olwen shifted, offended at the suggestion he couldn't carry one meager lowlander for a couple of yards. "Of course. She barely weighs that of a babe."

"This babe wants to move out."

Kamil shrugged. "Not what I meant, but let's get this show on the road, shall we?"

* * *

It was like riding on the very rump of a very lame horse. It took a feat of pure willpower to keep her eyes glued shut and her body convincingly (she hoped) limp with all the jostling. And the wailing. Someone's cries of "Get help" were a bit over the top, not saying any names.

There was yelling in a foreign tongue. Perhaps Kamil? Probably the people from the cult.

"'abaq fi makanik!"

"Tawaquf!"

"She's hurt," she heard Greer pleading,"You have to help us."

"Alhusul ealaa alshaykh."

"We mean you no harm," Olwen was saying, his hands tightening against her arms, "We ask aid – that is all."

It was Omaria, voice calm, steady, steely. "Natlub almueuna."

The yelling grew more quiet, more distant. Laying still was becoming unbearable. After moments passed in tense silence, she could no longer resist, taking a slight peek.

They stood in an alley of sorts, with tents on either side of them. Between slips of fabric, she could see the center of the camp. A fire roared.

She felt sick. What if it was Testroyva all over again? The fear she felt for Leon, it was enough to make her lose all grips on her sanity. She tried to calm her breathing, chest heaving. He wasn't here. He wasn't here. He wasn't here…

The voices returned. She clamped her eyes shut, fighting her nerves to remain placid. Olwen was probably anxious out of his mind.

Someone new spoke. A deep, reverberating baritone – the voice of a sane leader, she hoped. "'ahdaruha 'iilaa khimti."

"We need to follow him," Omaria said from somewhere close. "He's their elder."

Olwen said nothing, but Cressida thought she felt him nod before he began walking again. Much more slowly this time. That she was thankful for.

Her heart flew into her throat when she felt herself sliding, Olwen allowing her to slip from his steady hold. Soft ground below her. Pillows? Something silky. It felt safer in the giant's arms.

Someone came close, the strong scent of ash and herb coming with them. "Madha hdth?" The same rumbling tone from outside.

"Kan hunak hujum." Kamil, this time. Whatever he said, he said it like someone died.

"Hmm." Was the reply.

There was no warning before warm fingers came to rest upon her face. It was out of her control – she jumped. The fingers lifted.

"Abdul, 'ughliq alrafrifa." There was shuffling of feet, wrestling of fabric.

A beat of stifling silence.

"Tell me, strange ones, why do you come in lies?"

The relief at being able to understand the words shrunk away as the understanding of them dawned. The rouse was over. They were done. In foolish hope, she kept her eyes firmly shut.

Olwen spoke next. "We need not wish to deceive you or your people. Nor did we tell an unturth when asking for aid –"

The man cut him off. "You needed access to my camp and used false pretense to get it. How am I to trust any word you speak? This girl," there was a whoosh of air from a waving hand, "Is not harmed. You are pretenders, liars – are you also thieves and raiders?"

She wasn't going to be talked over like a piece of meat. She sat up, glaring. Right into the man's face, it seemed. He was older, black-haired and black-bearded. His eyes were angry, but not glazed over in thoughtless zeal as she expected. He reared back. It nearly made her smile. Not the time, Cress, not the time.

"Elder, sir, sorry about the...face of lies, but I was told your people help those that need help. We need help."

His eyes were green, not brown like she assumed they would be. He narrowed them at her. "What could you possibly ask for that I could give? We are not rich, blessed by the gods in ways unseen."

Ailith leaned forward from her place in the darkened corner. "Blessed by the gods? Your people seek their favor. We are on a mission of the gods."

"Sayith the liar."

She sank to his level, eye to eye. "If you help us, I will ensure Naltia's blessing upon your people."

That caught his attention but gained his ire. "Now you speak for the goddess of mercy?"

"You cannot believe what you do not see. Typical, but disappointing." The only warning sign she'd pulled a dagger was the glint of the blade from the swinging lantern light. The white's of the elder's eyes flashed as he skittered back in the sand. The corner of Ailith's lips tugged toward a smile before she slit her own wrists.

Everyone was still, faces unsure. Cressida was horrified, gaze transfixed as the blood pooled. The elf was steady, holding her hands out for all to see. Slowly, through the red, the skin around the trench-like slashes melted back together. The blood came to a trickle before ceasing altogether. Other than smears, it was like nothing had been there at all.

It was hard to tell whether she looked paler than usual, but Ailith seemed fine. Was fine. "Pain is still inescapable, wounds that cripple still leave their mark, but the blow of death can not touch me. I am already dead, in the employ of Naltia." She pulled the dark sleeves of her robe over her hands as if to conceal what happened. "It is the same for all chosen agents. Our lives are no longer our own. Do you believe me now?"

The elder still sat on his bum, eyes working across the tent from one person to another. He looked to be in a mild state of panic. After a while, he cleared his throat. "What needs to be done? To serve the goddess."

Cressida sat up straighter. "We need to get to Gueule d'Or du Lion. Fast."

The elder's chest visibly deflated. "What you ask is impossible. The city is closed."

Kamil and Omaria shared an expression one half confused, one half alarmed. "Why?" he asked

The elder cocked his head at that. "The Sacred Order of Hallowed Light. They have declared war. To 'hunt down all heretics in the name of the holy goddess Lux."'

* * *

 ** _A/N:_**

Told you I'd be back, and here I am! I really don't have much to say after that author's note...

Except to thank you all for your outpouring of love, support, and positivity from the reviews. Every single one touched my heart. You all seem to care about me (and trust me, I care about all of you) - I can't believe the internet can bring people together like this. I don't even know your names, what you look like - anything really, and yet there's still a connection.

Anyway, tell me what you think of the chapter. I always love hearing your theories and far-flung and sometimes not so far-flung assumptions. (Also did you catch the Marvel reference?)

Forgive the no doubt rather numerous errors in this chapter. I wrote it hastily.

See you all soon! Much love, take care, and goodnight!


	11. Tasarr the Destroyer

He used to adore the desert. Unlike the cities, it was open, the space seeming to be nearly infinite. The way the horizon deceived your eye into believing that something could actually be endless…It soothed that continual ache in him that longed for freedom.

But now, tonight, the stars tiny gems against a canvas of black bleeding without seam, without end, into nothing – it made his heart clamor against its bone cage. He wanted to rage. He wanted to scream.

So he did. Allowed his lungs to release the frustration he'd been holding in for days, for weeks, probably for months. It rang hollow to his ears before being swallowed up by the hungry, gaping desert.

"Kamil. Kamil, what are you doing?" It was Omaria's guttural growl, always angry and restrained at once.

He whirled on her. "This is your fault!" The pop of blue fire illuminated the surprise in her eyes just as she danced out of its blazing path.

She needed little time to right herself, straightening her stance and flexing her fingers, her own pale flame glowing bright between them. She gave him a dirty look. "Have you ingested the Lux-kissers' crazy? Explain yourself – now."

His own explosiveness took him by surprise. "We were fine! We were doing okay on our own – I was almost able to forget I was a Gifted, that I murdered my own fucking father," he snarled that word, hands clenching into fists. "But you had to show up. I sent Nuri to that city. I abandoned her and now she's in there all alone and I can't do anything. And apparently, the world is ending." He turned his back on her, voice raising along with his hands. "What the fuck are we doing, Omaria? We can't face a god."

"Return to your senses." her tone dripped derision, "As you said, we're facing a god. You'll need them." She began walking away, back toward the tents and the others. "And for the love of the goddess, stop being so weak."

With that, his anger was renewed. In a fit of enraged impulse, he tackled her, his greater weight sprawling them both face-first into the sand. Omaria howled, twisting around to rip at his face, his hair. He had his hands around her throat before he realized what he was doing.

Breathing heavily, he sat back. "I'm–I'm sorry, I'm so—"

Her small but mighty fist colliding with his nose sent him falling to the side, next to her. Kamil laid there, tasting blood, looking at the stars. A peripheral glance showed that Omaria was fighting to control her temper as well as her breathing.

"I deserved that." He said after a while.

"Yes."

"This isn't your fault, either." He waved a hand at nothing in particular. "You're only following orders from…well, a higher command."

Like him, she concentrated on looking up, dark dreads fanned out around her. "So, you sacrificed your father?"

Kamil breathed out in an attempt to exhale the grief that sentence brought. It didn't work. "I did. It's like a cycle, you know. He killed our mother to protect us. I killed him to protect Nuri. It changed him, the powers. He just wasn't right after that." His throat felt thick. "That's why I try to pretend I'm not a Gifted. Maybe if I fake it enough, that won't happen to me." A renegade tear slid off his cheek to make a dip in the sand. "I have to be there for her."

Omaria's face was its usual stone. "It is a cycle. My little sister was the one I killed after she sacrificed the love of my life. Tahira and I, we were slaves. Leila…" Her breath hitched, "Leila was our master's daughter." She grinned at him then, a cruel, self-depreciating grin. "Isn't that like a storybook, like a fairytale? And like a fairytale, we decided to run away – then we'd live happily ever after. We were caught before we started. That's when Tahira sacrificed Leila – it was their plan, one they'd made behind my back. Leila just wanted me to be free, even at the cost of herself. Tahira couldn't handle what'd she done, she begged me to do it, and I was so angry, so blinded by rage and hatred, I did. I don't look back; that is how you keep going."

Kamil suspected something horrible in her history; it explained so much, but after hearing it, he didn't know what to say – there really was nothing to say. So they laid in silence, in grief, and watched the night sky for hours.

There was no going back for them; their sins could never be unmade. A strange feeling of calm settled over him. Killing a god couldn't be as hard as killing the ones you love. One thing was for sure, though: he was getting into that city even if it meant he had to burn it to the ground.

* * *

Matthias was a kind of bone-deep exhausted. It seemed like years since he'd slept in his bed in the Fortress of Light and the realization that he'd never sleep in it again struck him as he arose from his bedroll that morning. The sunrise in this place, however, was beautiful, and he tucked the memory of it into his mind to keep for the uncertain future ahead.

They were all to meet in the Elder's tent after breakfast. It wasn't difficult to find because, well, they were in it last night after the whole 'Get Help' fiasco, and because it was also the one with the most lanterns. The Seekers of Sky were afraid of the dark, apparently.

If the Testroyvi were standoffish, the Agrian Seekers were the most introverted people on the planet, and all that being said from a self-proclaimed introvert. Outfitted in plain yet colorful robes, Matthias would catch them peering around corners, and when he and the group walked across the camp, all conversation would cease.

"Why are they all staring at us?" Cressida's stage whisper could use a little work.

"Maybe because you were carried in here last night looking like a piece of meat, and now you're fine," Greer quipped.

Matthias cleared his throat. "And uh, speaking of faces that look a little different, what happened to Kamil?"

As if on cue, both girls turned around to openly stare at the Gifted in question. Surprisingly, he blushed and looked away, the bruising around his nose painfully evident even with his darker tone of skin.

"He and Omaria had a tiff, as they say," Olwen replied. His own face bore some redness, no doubt from over-exposure to a rather relentless Agrian sun.

Matthias raised a brow, "Is that what all those strange noises were last night? I thought someone was dying."

Cressida did not smile when she said, "I thought someone was fucking."

In sync, both he and Greer gave her a scandalized look. Olwen's cheeks turned an even deeper shade of red. It almost matched his hair; it was kind of adorable, really.

"Not in front of the cultists." Kamil sauntered over, recovered from his temporary bashfulness and tossed them all a wink. "But in all seriousness, I wish. Omari likes girls so…However, I feel we do have a special bond that transcends sexuality."

Summoned by the mere mentioning of her name, Omaria appeared behind him, giving the back of his skull a well-earned slap. "Why are you all loitering? Aren't we planning a siege?" With that, she barged past them and into the Elder's tent.

Slowly, they followed.

"And the violence continues," Kamil muttered with no real malice, crossing the threshold and leaving the flaps swinging in his wake.

The Elder was there already. Upon closer inspection, so was Ailith. The two's attention was fixed on a map that had been pinned up to hang from one of the upper tiers. The words atop it read Guele d'Or du Lion. Not only a city but also a region, nearly making up half of Agria, Matthias had underestimated its scale. Agria perhaps was larger than even Testroyva, whose wildernesses were vast enough to swallow you up and never let you be seen again. Losing your way in the desert…he didn't know which was worse.

The Seekers seemed to make their way through the arid landscape well enough, so it was lucky to have their aid. If they had their aid. The Elder kept shooting them glances that warred between fear and outright distrust. Not that they'd done anything to earn that trust. Ailith's display was…oh, what was the word, impressive? But Matthias thought he maybe trusted her less after that. He'd had nightmares about it afterward.

It was no small amount of strange he didn't know agents of the gods were technically undead. Not that he knew everything, of course, but the Order's library supposedly housed books on every subject, and he'd read all of those books. What other things of the orphic and arcane did the Order not know even existed? Or did they know, and simply not share that knowledge…

Either way, it didn't matter now. They'd all made their beds.

He wondered if Leon and Killian had completed the return journey. It was possible they never made it back at all. The Testroyvi could have gone back on their word and done away with them, despite what Sybil said. She did nothing to stop the killing of their previous Shamen, and in his eyes, that was a slightly treacherous behavior. Though they were all traitors now, it seemed.

Shaking his head, Matthias re-zoned into the conversations around him. Kamil was poking at a dark spot on the map, saying, "Am I the only one who sees this? This is a wall. It's King Adham's pride and joy, and it keeps everyone out – it's even warded, so it especially keeps unwanted Gifted out. I.e.," he pointed to himself, Omaria, and Arren, "The three of us. I don't know how it reacts to the god-touched, but probably not well. Do you like being set on fire?"

Cressida crossed her arms. "Well, it wouldn't kill her, would it?"

Kamil gave her a cheeky grin.

Though she spoke in quiet tones, everyone stopped to listen to Omaria. "What I find interesting is that our King didn't cancel his ball. A bold move, with a horde of holy soldiers marching to his door. Too bold, I think – a front to appear strong in a time of weakness. His sister, Princess Talismah, is she still in the city?"

The Elder looked conflicted. "No one has seen her since she rode south, toward Khmst Al'anhar. That was weeks ago."

Ailith cocked her head at him, too-blue-eyes alight with an uncomfortable intensity. "You're awfully well-informed for someone who spends all their time roaming the desert, consulting the skies. Did the stars tell you this, zaeim?"

"I–" He took a step back.

She took one forward. "If you're in league with the Princess, tell us now, so that she is not offended – should anything happen to you."

The Elder stood his ground. "King Adham is no longer listening to the clerics. The clerics feel that, perhaps, the Princess is a better way for the future, someone more apt to negotiate with our Ethrian neighbors. Perhaps the Seekers agree with the clerics. If the Princess were to move against her brother, perhaps she would be met with support, and perhaps those supporting her might join her in the city." He was looking more confident, watching his audience closely. "But you still haven't told me, why would you need into the city at such a tumultuous time. Surely, any business you have there can wait until after this situation is resolved. Unless you have an undue concern for its outcome."

They all looked at each other, uncertain whether this man and his Seekers could be trusted with the full truth. He was religious; would he even believe them?

Matthias was surprised to hear his own voice speaking, but he pressed on. "No offense intended, Elder, but we're outsiders. We have no stake in who rules Agria. If the one who does rule Agria would be willing to support us if we support them, then that would be the most mutually beneficial outcome, wouldn't it? After all, we do have the ear of two goddesses."

The man fell silent, and Matthias hoped he hadn't pushed any implications too far. He wasn't entirely sure if they had the ear of any goddesses, but if the leader of the Seekers of Sky seemed to think so then he would be remiss if that angle wasn't played. He held his breath.

The Elder's dark beard dipped when he nodded. "The Princess will know." He walked to the corner, an outline of something covered with a ruby-hued cloth. He flipped it up, revealing an iron-wrought cage with a huge hawk in it. It blinked at the intrusion, opening and closing its sharp beak.

Ailith smiled. "I have someone who the message should be delivered to first."

Greer stood close to the map, thought-lines etched into her forehead. "That still doesn't explain how we're getting through those walls. Even with their forces, a frontal assault from the Order will be difficult. Heavy casualties."

The Seeker looked all too pleased with himself. "You're not the only ones with mighty friends. You won't need to go through the walls, but over them."

Kamil's eyeballs bulged. "How do you expect us to scale a 50-foot wall? Not even the giant here could do that. Also, warded."

Arren scoffed. "Especially not the giant; he's much too heavy for scaling."

Olwen shifted uncomfortably at the turn in the conversation. Matthias couldn't blame him. The thought of climbing anything that high…well, he'd rather not think of it at all.

The Elder clucked his tongue. "You misunderstand. This is Agria, land of myths and legends and extraordinary beasts. The greatest of them, perhaps, belongs to my ancestral people, the Alanharan …ah, well, 'belong' is not the right word. Tasarr does not belong to anyone nor could he ever."

Omaria looked the closest thing to pale she could ever look, and Kamil actually stuttered. "Tasarr — Tasarr the Destroyer? But that's not possible. He's only a story —"

"And all stories have a grain of truth. I assure you, it's very much possible. As you will see." The man's expression turned grave. "But once we release Tasarr, there is no going back."

Matthias didn't understand the horrified looks from his Agrian companions. "Who is Tasarr?"

Omaria's voice was low, nearly reverent. "The Desert Death."

Kamil was less cryptic but not by much. "Only the most notorious dragon in Agrian history. In the tales, he's the reason why we even have a desert; it used to be all fertile farmland – until he razed it to dust."

"And he's going to what," Cressida piped up, "Just give us a ride?"

The Elder showed a full grin for the first time since they'd met him. "More or less."

* * *

I

t was settled then. They would remain with the Seekers of Sky until Tasarr the Destroyer was summoned, ride on the back of the epitome of fiery destruction into a walled-city that was about to be besieged, infiltrate a rogue king's palace on the eve of a ball, and steal a key to the underworld. Oh, wait – Kamil forgot the part where they were aiding in a coup that would dethrone said king. His own king, not that he'd ever held any sort of love for Adham Reyx, his most royal highness. Kamil didn't need to be politically savvy to know the man was mad, a spoiled tyrant with a heart of stone.

It was karma, not treachery.

Kamil swallowed and prayed this wouldn't end in all their executions. He looked around at the group with him; even the former Order soldiers he wished no harm. It was startling, actually, how innocent they seemed, not at all like the zealous killing machines he'd imagined. The only one who threatened his person thus far had been Omaria, but they were past that now. Mostly.

But he knew they had to have taken Gifted lives. It came with the territory. Just what would happen, he wondered, if or when they were forced to face off against their former brothers-in-arms? Could they do it, deal that blow? He had an itch and he wanted to know.

Without warning, Kamil plopped himself down in the midst of the golden trio, his shoulders sandwiched between those of Cressida and Greer. From the end of the line, Matthias peered at him out from under his dark curls. Everyone was watching him, actually. He cleared his throat.

"Have you thought it through?"

Greer raised a brow. "Thought what through?"

"You've all left the Order, no more witch-hunting for you, which is great. But after this is all over," he grinned, "That is, if we live – what are you going to do? I can't imagine you could just go rejoin the families who gave you up. They wouldn't even know who you were. You're all fugitives now."

Cressida schooled her features into exaggerated thoughtfulness. "You're right, Kamil. I suppose I'll have to start my own cult, except this one will hunt the Order instead, turn the tables. It would be ironic."

It was a joke, but he sensed something behind it, something that made him think the Order should watch their back.

He played along. "Is this a non-Gifted thing, or will it be all-inclusive?"

She shrugged, her lips tugging at the corners. "Elves, giants, Gifted – hell, even Mortabela can join."

From her place across the fire, Omaria snorted.

"That sounds like a party," he replied.

She looked away, toward the fire. "Oh, it will be."

It was safe to assume they hadn't thought it through. They were all running from something, running toward what they hoped wasn't destruction. But there was no way of knowing, no looking down before the leap was made.

Tomorrow, they would summon a beast from fable and break into the golden city. No matter whatever else happened, Kamil would find Nuri and keep her safe. And if it came down to her or the others, he knew, despite the gut-churning, what he would do.

* * *

 _ **A/N:**_ Dragons, yaaaaay! I just love dragons, don't you?

As usual, tell me your thoughts or whatever else you want to throw at me. I live to hear it. Or read it. I'd love to know what you thought of Kamil and Omaria's "bonding."

So, does anyone remember when I said I was going to publish a "spin-off" story featuring scenes from the characters' pasts? Well, I've finally gone and done it. It's called Memoria, and the first chapter is up. It would mean a lot to me if you checked it out and gave it a review. Tell me whose backstory you would like a peek into next.

For now, so long! I'll see you all soon, even sooner if you head over to Memoria xD. Have a wonderful day, sweet readers!


	12. Tasarr the Destroyer II

There was just something about power. Even before, before Leila, before Tahira, she'd harbored a secret, gaping hunger for it. It was a part of her that drove her forward, propelled her to do things, terrible, terrible things the soft of heart could not stomach nor comprehend.

Right now, it drove her to participate in the ridiculous pissing contest of who got to summon the mighty dragon Tasarr.

The one named Cressida, the one with the shining blue-eyes, held her arms crossed tightly in front of her chest, as if adopting a defensive - and childish Omaria would daresay - pose would somehow help her win this argument. It wouldn't.

"The Elder said it didn't have to be a Gifted," she was saying, those rather fetching irises flashing altogether in an annoying manner, "So yes, I could summon the dragon. I've always wanted to meet a dragon."

Omaria smiled with all the grace she did not feel. "And I've always wanted to flay your Order's Avatar and wave his flesh as a flag of war, but alas."

"That could happen." Kamil's dark brows creased in mock contemplation. "He's marching right to our door if our sources are to be believed. Well, the king's door."

Greer's voice drew Omaria's gaze. "It won't be his door for much longer, if this works out, which - let's remain realistic - it most likely won't. Also, it is highly unlikely the Avatar will accompany the soldiers. As far as I remember, he's never even left the Fortress."

"That's those zealous holy figures for you; dice away the jargon and propaganda and there will be little but cowardice." Cressida chirped, uncrossing her arms. "So, it's settled then. I summon the dragon?"

"You won't if you know what's good for you."

Cressida scoffed at the threat, and Omaria got the distinct impression she was not used to towing the line. Strange, considering her background. Or perhaps not.

Shaking her head with a tired smile, Greer said, "Cressida has never known what's good for her."

Matthias, whose hair the humid Agrian air was doing no favors for, gave a short, nervous laugh. "I second that assessment. Seriously Cress," his big brown eyes grew soft with affection, with worry, "Please don't do this."

Cressida's shoulders wavered, deflating inch by inch. She wouldn't meet any of their gazes.

Toes grazing the line of the deep, dark, and smoking abyssal crack in the scorched earth, the fittingly ominous resting place of the ferocious beast in argument, Arren released an irritated sigh.

"Can one of you please choose before the dragon wakes up on account of all the chatting and consumes us alive?"

Kamil tsked at him. "Patience is a virtue, but true." He rubbed his palms down his tunic shirt. "I would normally volunteer for this job, but as I am scared shitless, I cast my lot in with Omaria." He shot a wink to Cressida. "Sorry, love - if anyone can tarry with a dragon, it's her."

Omaria, with a bit of gloating ceremony, came to stand beside Arren on the unstable point where the ground gave way and faded to black. This close, a smell like death but older wafted up from the darkened crater in short, inexplicable bursts of heat. The beat of her heart increased its tempo. Over the black, she held out a hand. Everyone, except a strangely enthralled Arren, moved a few paces back.

Omaria hesitated, her other hand bearing the serrated and inscribed blade of the Seekers of Sky - Reckoning they called it - and the thought came to her, unbidden, that this could all be a mistake. Mortabela had other servants, a large and faceless number; why must this be her? Why must she always bear the blows, commit the sins?

The blue-eyed girl had wanted to do it, after all, the mad little thing.

But there it was, calling to her, crooning to her - forcing her hand, as usual, like always. The part of her that wanted, no - demanded - power told her to slice her hand, to squeeze it tight until drop after drop of her life's blood fell into the cavernous maw of the earth where a monster would lick it up.

But the part of her that was sick with an emotion transcending remorse, stronger than any stab of guilt, said,

if anyone is going to bind themselves to a force of destruction, to a beast that rends the land itself,

then it's going to be me. I deserve it.

And that part won.

She hissed out the inscribed runes, and the quaking began.

* * *

On the other side of the Agrian wastes, Killian poured sand from his boots. It was everywhere, and it got everywhere, but somehow, this dry and desolate land was still preferable to Testroyva. Probably the trauma. Near-death experiences had such a way of tainting all that was associated with them.

Boots returned to their rightful place, Killian stood, ignoring the bout of nausea that plagued him until it passed. He hadn't been sleeping well, the deep purple circles under his eyes a testament to that unfortunate fact. He blamed it on the sound of horses neighing, armor clanking, swords clashing, machinery groaning – all sounds he should be accustomed to, but here, in this place, they seemed as foreign as the surroundings.

The Order came to the desert, bringing with them not only the sounds but also the instruments of war. The Fortress was left nearly barren, armed with skeleton ranks – the Avatar and his elite guard stayed behind, of course. If anyone were actually going to make an attempt on his Holinesses' life, now would be the opportune time.

Accidentally, he thought of the elf.

 _Ailith_

Behind him, there was the dull thud of footfalls against the hardpacked sand, and soon a frowning Leon entered his peripheral. "What was that?''

Killian raised a brow. "What was what?"

"You said something."

Killian scowled internally. Oops, definitely didn't mean to say that aloud. Deflecting, he said, "That reminds me. Were you having a rough dream last night? You kept mumbling something. What was it…Oh, yes – Cressida."

Leon scowled on the outside. A few beats passed. Up ahead, a horde of soldiers and horses labored under the weight of a massive battering ram. With a bray that spoke of immense pain, one of the beasts fell, the muscles in its legs bunching as it kicked up sand in futile attempts to regain footing. Movement was halted, the cursing of exhausted men and woman drifting out over the sullen plains.

"You know," Killian began sagely, though he had no intentions of coming to the aid of the soldiers struggling before him, "It seems like there should be an easier way to transport that thing."

Leon grunted. "There would have been. Matthias designed something he called an 'Automatic System,' but. . ."

He risked a sideways glance. Leon held an unreadable expression, which, in the past, would have been unusual. Of late, however…

"You should have stayed."

Leon's eyes grew so wide Killian felt the need to clarify.

"You should have stayed with them." Eye-contact was uncomfortable, so he righted his gaze until it again rested on the wobbling mass of the battering ram. "With her."

"She chose the wrong si–"

Killian made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. "Forget about the sides, Leon. What do they even matter if you can't sleep at night? Cressida was always going to leave the Order, one way or another – personally, I thought she'd be executed but life does occasionally surprise me."

The green-eyed boy shifted his weight from foot to foot, forehead wrinkled as he stared with intent at something on the ground. "If you feel like this, why didn't you stay?"

Killian shrugged. "What else is there for me? Sometimes it's better to just go through the motions."

"That is depressing."

"Says you, lover-boy – one more night listening to you sob into your bedroll and I may actually kill myself."

Leon rolled his eyes. "I don't cry."

"Sure."

They lapsed into silence once more.

He was reminded of the night they returned to the Fortress, the whole of the journey where they pointedly did not speak as if the truth of what they left behind would manifest in their words and then, there would be no more denying it: a mistake had been made. When they saw their fellow soldiers hopping around, preparing, weapons sharpened and equipment honed, it had become clear.

The Order was going to war.

On Agria, of all places. Well, they were going to war on the half of it ruled by their purportedly insane king.

Because why?

Because the Avatar had a vision, a most holy one, given to him by Lux herself. Killian could have cried, if he were the crying type, like Leon – the whole ordeal was mad. But he fell into line – why not – and marched out with his _brothers_ to kill lots of people because their supreme leader had an especially feverish dream. All was well.

Not only that, but Killian was still healing from his injuries. He was able to push through, and it pushed back. The scars were their own sort of agony; they were going to get worse, he knew. It was doubtful they would ever fade.

Doubt doubt doubt. The one thing of which there was no short supply.

* * *

They were tossed to the ground, and Omaria, knees scraped with grit, dug her fingernails deeply into Arren's shoulder to keep him from tumbling down into the abyssal cause of the turbulence.

Her own shoulder popped and creaked with his weight. Grimacing, she switched to a two-handed grip, the slash in her palm bleeding red onto his shirt. It stung – badly.

Through gritted teeth, she admonished, "You shouldn't have stood so close, idiot." From over the edge, he grinned up at her, seemingly nonconcerned.

Olwen, Mortabela bless him, scurried forward, extending one big arm and scooping Arren from his impending doom as if he weighed nothing.

"Thanks," the pale boy said as he was set on his feet, "I'm not fond of ancient pits."

The giant clapped him on the back. "Then stay out of them."

Omaria sat, chest heaving, and rolled her smarting shoulder. The earth under them gave another mighty shake. It was worse – arguably – than the last not because of its force, but because what came with it – a terrible roar that was not quite a roar, a sound that made vibration in the ears, a sound that transcended the ability to describe it.

And that was nothing compared to the beast who released it.

The flapping of wings that were each bigger than bridges carried it up into the air, blasting a furious hot wind down with their strength. Through the blinding sun and the cyclone of sand, only the flash of a megalithic clawed-paw – could it even be called a paw? – was visible. Then it dropped from the sky, a living, breathing boulder to crush them.

The force was tremendous. Again, Omaria was knocked off her feet, away from the pit. Her stomach lurched as the dust cleared; mere inches from her face was something black and sharp and large and dripping wet — the forked tongue of a dragon.

It slithered hither, stopping just as it brushed her forehead. It smelled like death and felt worse. The only thing stopping her from turning to vomit from the texture alone was the burn of this creature's aureate eyes, baring down from the depth provided by its towering neck; heat like that from a flame flashed through her.

Through her mind.

 _Omaria._

"Omaria!" Kamil was at her side, body tensed and posture defensive as if he could protect her from a dragon, "Omaria – tell him what to do. Tell him."

Its laugh was akin to ancient bones creaking. She realized – when no one else cringed with the way it dragged down their spine – she was the only one who could hear it.

 _Little witch_ , it crooned, _don't you know what you've done?_

That inescapable laughter.

 _Tell me what to do._

It was mocking.

 _You have performed the binding, yes, but it is you who are bound to me, not I to you._

Somehow, she kind of figured. Why would a being like Tasarr the Destroyer abdicate his free will to a human? Why would anyone.

 _But you did, little witch._

She tried to stand taller, somehow, in her mind. _I have_ a bargain _to strike with you._

His tongue flicked forward. _A bargain? Mayhap you do not understand — anything I could demand of you, you would simply have to give._

 _The humans could lock you away again,_ she thought _. Should you return to your reign of terror, they would._

The dragon sniffed. _Dare you insinuate you stand a better chance against them than I?_

 _No_ , Omaria conceded, _but if my life as a Gifted has taught anything it is how to hide like a wolf among sheep. At your size, I imagine there is no place you could conceal yourself. A mountain perhaps, or a dark pit — oh, wait. . ._

He reared back his scaly head, revealing rows of whetted teeth. _You've made your point. The deal, little witch – what are we to do about this?_

She allowed herself to smirk. _I serve a mistress that has made man into beasts; surely, just this once, we could grant the ability to do the reverse._

His fire-like eyes flamed brighter. _And the snare of it?_

Omaria turned back to face the group, all their faces contorted with fear and confusion. _We need a lift. And fire, lots of fire._

Tasarr twitched his pointed maw, and she realized with a jolt it was supposed to be a smile: a smile made for war, a smile made for destruction.

* * *

Drakon could remember when he first held his nephew. So small, so tiny and fragile. The former warrior prayed silently, hoping his arms wouldn't crush the poor infant. Of course, Drakon never had a child of his own; he barely knew what to do when it came to the care of little Egil.

Even in sleep, Drakon struggled to breathe; it was as if smoke filled his lungs once more, death threatening to drag him into its cold embrace. He remembered when the soldiers arrived, how they came in the night with their torches and swords. Drakon kept true to his word, ruthlessly cutting through the ranks of a near-army.

And yet it was their Legate that managed to get the last laugh, driving a broadsword through the hunter's abdomen.

And then...nothing.

Drakon awoke, sitting up in the makeshift 'bed' that was a bedroll and bag. His beard was fresh with dew, flecks of dried blood falling into his lap. The hunter sighed, preparing to venture further into the night desert.

He packed his bedroll and tools, taking his axe before leaving the cave.

Despite the stories, the Great Expanse was an absolute hellish landscape, and more of a nightmare in the night hours. Rabid animals roamed the sands, preying upon the unwary ones. Drakon had hunted here before, taking pelts to the city and selling for cheap to the rich. He wasn't here for hunting, however.

He was here for the princess.

As he traversed the rocky dunes, the hunter peered into the darkness. He saw as the yellow eyes of a Lion focused only on him, maw red with the blood of its dinner. Standing, it leaped from its perch, licking its teeth as it approached Drakon. The hunter stood silent, allowing the creature to sniff at his hands.

"I'm here for Taslimah," said Drakon. "I bring news from a few friends."

The lion yawned, its gaze turned toward the north.

"Ah. I see," Drakon nodded. "Thank you."

He took the carcasses ferrets from his sack, allowing the lion to snatch them from his hand. Onward the hunter went, determined to attend a meeting...despite being completely uninvited.

* * *

Being a princess of Agria came with its perks, but there were rules that Taslimah had to follow, of course.

"One musn't indulge in vices!" they would say, "A princess must remain clean and pure!"

And yet there Taslimah was, sitting in a bar in Tariqat Almasafir, enjoying her third— no, fifteenth flagon of fermented medjool.

"So," one of the bar's courtesans spoke, cutting away Taslimah's hair. "How have you been, habibata? It's been months since you've been back."

"Mmph," groaned Taslimah, yawning. "Months? Really? It's felt like almost a few weeks to me, Haji."

"Oh, please. I remember the last time you were here. The last time I was satisfied like that was nearly— spirits, I don't even remember such a time before that," Haji chuckled. "Maybe we should try the stables this time? I hear the risk of getting caught adds to the thrill."

"Tempting, tempting," Taslimah murmured. "But I have a party to attend tonight. Familial issues to sort out as well."

Haji rolled her eyes, setting the cutting knives aside. She thought the half-shaved look of Taslimah's hair was a bit of a step, but it was one she could grow used to.

"Your highness," a masked man appeared through the curtains, arms crossed. "You have someone here to speak with you. He says he has information about the King."

Taslimah sat up, bones popping in her back.

"...Fine, Septimus. I'll speak with him," she groaned, attention turned to Haji. "Sorry, Haji. I-"

"Shush," said Haji, getting up to leave. "I'll be in my room."

Wordlessly she exited the room, glaring as she passed by Septimus. The bodyguard moved aside, allowing a visibly tired Drakon to enter. Cocking an eyebrow, Taslimah was genuinely curious to know who this stranger was, and how he even managed to carry such an axe at his side.

"Hm. You're tall, but you don't quite look Testroyvan," she spoke. "Half-blooded, maybe?"

"Close," Drakon grinned. "Arkadian."

"Ah. Arkadian," Taslimah stood, well in the shadow of a towering Drakon. "That explains the height and the barrel chest. But- I'm rambling. What did you want to talk about?"

"Adham Kadar Reyx," said Drakon, watching as Taslimah's expression changed. "You've heard of him?"

Groaning, she nodded, motioning for Drakon to follow her.

"Of course I know him. That bastard is my brother," she spoke. "I spent 17 years of my life having to tolerate his madness. As soon as he became king, not only has he allowed the Daelish to bring slavery, but my people are starving to death!"

Drakon had a look of confusion on his face.

"Your people?" he questioned.

"We're more Al'anharan than Lionan, but Adham refuses to admit heritage in public. Poor king hates being associated with savages," she sneered. "He's made his choice in loyalty. I'll be fucking happy to see that smug face of his dissolve when I come for him."

The two left the bar, entering the crowded stables.

Warriors readied their weapons and horses, preparing for a battle to come. Drakon could see more of the small army outside, many riding off to scout the nearby city roads.

"My dear brother is having a ball tonight. Obviously, we weren't invited," Taslimah said. "I have a feeling we'll be seeing you there as well?"

"Of course. I have a few words for his advisor," Drakon agreed. "I'm only here to give you this. A letter I found from one of the hawks. One sent by cultists."

Tied to his axe was a piece of folded parchment. He handed the letter to Taslimah, the unraveled twine falling to the floor.

As she walked Taslimah scanned over the paper.

"I'm sorry- you want me to help who?" she said, clearly dumbfounded.

"A few friends of mine. One of them is elven. Her name is Ailith," Drakon explained. "Hopefully, they'll make it to the palace."

"Hopefully? I've a feeling you'll need more than hope with this group. They need their gods," replied the princess. "I do like this Omaria person, though. Sounds like the type of person we need in an army, really."

Chuckling, Drakon shook his head.

"She's the one to strike fear into the hearts of your clerics," he warned.

"And?"

"And she's deadly."

"The Agrian wilds are deadlier."

"She still wants to kill me."

"I've had plenty of others try to kill me as well. Haji was one of them, but I managed to change her mind."

"With your fists or honest persuasion?"

"Neither. I used my tongue."

"Hm. Smart," Drakon grinned. "I used to do the same thing in my youth."

The two snickered, continuing to pass jokes to and fro before leaving the stables. The cool air nearly froze the sweat on Taslimah's neck, but she had grown used to it; Drakon, on the other hand, swore that the very hairs on his chest turned to ice.

"This is why it's always good to have a ghutra in the desert," Taslimah said, pulling a scarf over her freshly shaved head. "You need a horse, yeah?"

"No," Drakon answered bluntly. "I'm swimming."

"The dama altinin river? That's a straight shot into the city, and the most dangerous," warned Taslimah.

"I have a plan," said the hunter. "I wish you luck on this rebellion, princess."

Whistling, Taslimah watched as her horse rushed away from the water well, galloping to stop at her side. Blinking, the creature's nostrils flared as it snorted, tail swishing patiently as it waited on the princess.

"Narju min alalihat musaeidatuk, siad," she spoke, mounting the stallion. "And I can only hope that you avoid death on this night, friend."

Followed by dozens of her soldiers, Taslimah rode off into the night, a near dust storm created by the hooves of the horses.

Drakon set off toward the river, tightening the straps of his sack and keeping his axe close. As he heard the distant, booming roar of a creature, he could only frown, knowing full well what the monster was. And as he climbed the sandy hill behind the bar, the hunter could see the shadowy outline of a beast in the sky, wings outstretched and smoke beneath its wings.

"Desert Death," murmured Drakon, watching as the beast disappeared behind the mountain. "Those lux-worshiping zealots are doomed."

* * *

 **A/N:** I am so sorry for how long this took! But I do have exciting news to share.

As I am sure some of you know, November is the month of a writing competition called NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). The goal is to write 50,000 words in 30 days, which is roughly 1,667 words a day. So why should you care?

! My "novel" for this November is going to be Siege of Gods! That means, if all goes well, I will be writing at least a thousand words a day for an entire month, which translates to super regular updates! Our journey, already prolonged I know, should be finished up then! I AM SO EXCITED!

Don't worry; I will not cheat - I won't be using what's already been written. From whatever point we're at by November first, I'll start my word count from zero as if I've only just started the novel.

Speaking of word counts, I've only just recenly noticed that Siege of Gods has made it past 30,000! I'll be honest: I've never written this much on a singular project before, nor did I think we would actually make it here. I owe it ALL to you guys, the best submitters, readers, reviewers, and online people I've ever met. And a million thanks to Kai, who has been here every step of the way. Without her, I know for a fact I would not be writing this right now. Also, she wrote the Drakon POV in this chapter, so thank you, Kai, for that as well!

Much love and good vibes to you all, and see you next time!

 **IMPORTANT UPDATE:** Guys, I have to tell you all something important - do not assume someone's gender based on their online name. Because you're all intelligent individuals, I am positive you know that. Because I apparently am not, I have made that mistake. If you noticed, the pronouns above concerning my co-author Kai have changed from him/he to her/she and that's because like a complete and total foolish idiot, I assumed she was a male because the name she chooses to go by on here is Kai. I was stupid to do that; I should have never assumed anything of the like. I deeply apologize, to Kai and to anyone who has had this embarrassing mistake happen to them. I'm leaving this here in case anyone was wondering why the pronouns changed; it's because I screwed up. Children, learn from my mistakes and don't make them. This has been a PSA.


	13. Dance of Ashes

At some point, one has to wonder:

 _how did I get here?_

Sailing through the air, thousands of feet above the ground on the back of a legendary beast from dark tales, about to crash-land into a magically walled city locked down by a tyrant king and about to besieged by an organization she formerly swore allegiance to, Greer was at that point. Non-metaphorically, she didn't like the place she was at much better, either.

Eyes stung by the furious winds, Greer leaned closer into Matthias' back, shielding her face with his mop of curly hair. She knew her fingers probably gripped tight enough to bruise, but she couldn't bring herself to lessen it even a little. The burning in her thighs was just as intense as she used them to cling to the creature under her. It felt wrong wrong wrong.

His skin — scales – were hard as stone, harder probably, and if you shifted you could feel the edges of them catch, sharp like little teeth. They were also hot to the touch, not so much as to burn, but unnatural all the same. The back of a dragon made for one very uncomfortable seat.

The only positives in traveling this way were the speed, of course, and the space — the long, ridged expanse between its massive wings was roomy enough for all of them to sit, lined up and clinging to one another for dear life. The order went: Omaria, Arren, Kamil, Cressida, Matthias, herself, Ailith, and Olwen, who graciously volunteered to bring up the rear. Literally.

They could squeeze more, if needed, but it was her hope they never had to do this again. She sent a silent prayer to Bahar for that to be the case.

The monster swooped. The drop in the bottom of her stomach was thankfully the only thing to fall. Tempted beyond her control, Greer peered down.

It was a sand-colored world, dotted with blurs that could be brush or rocks, or really anything. A rising mass up ahead snagged her attention. A mountain? It didn't look quite like one, too uniform, the top of it too straight. It more closely resembled–

A wall.

It was a wall.

It was _the_ wall. They'd reached Guele D'or de Lion.

Tasarr roared, the muscles along his back contracting beneath his passengers. The noise rang in Greer's ears; it made her chest feel hollow. Again, he swooped, but this time — this time, he did not pull up. A straight nosedive for the ground, barreling at such a speed it yanked at one's flesh. She opened her mouth. She was screaming, screaming as loud as she could, but it was not heard over the whipping of the wind, over the rush of her own blood.

The wall was before them. She could make out every detail, every archer's notch, every line of stone. They passed just over it, Tasarr's mighty tail crashing through it. A section of the wall crumbled beneath the force, sending shockwaves all the way up Greer's own spine. He roared again, slapping his wings back in an effort to, somehow, double their already insane speed.

Looking ahead, Greer felt sick build up inside of her. She knew exactly what this beast was aiming for.

In paintings, the palace of Guele D'Or du Lion was beautiful, ethereal with its shining marble pillars and golden spires. It was no less beautiful in real life, and Greer clamped her eyes shut so tight it hurt as she braced for impact.

She was not prepared. The momentum Tasarr launched himself – and them – with was shattering. They pummeled into the most prominent dome of the palace, bits of gold and stone flying up like shrapnel. Blood filled her mouth from her own teeth puncturing it, the inside of her skull reverberating from the shock.

Like some monstrous bird, Tasarr twisted his talons about a structural beam revealed from the destruction of the crash, towering in the wake of the rubble. He swayed, and Greer came to realize how slick dragon scales actually were, and how gravity will always betray you.

With the spreading of those terrible wings, shaped like those of a demonic bat, Greer felt herself dislodge, slipping slipping slipping. She could have hung on, if it weren't for everyone else falling.

It's a feeling you've always known, and you will never forget. The feeling of absolute loss of control, of impending doom, of weightlessness and freedom in the worst possible way.

It was notable that she didn't scream. No, if she should die, it would be with an expression that represented how she felt: an exasperated frown.

* * *

As they fell ( _crashed_ ) through the palace's famous golden dome, Kamil experienced an out of body moment. He was aware of the chaos around him, the others' cries of fear and surprise, and the debris flitting about them along with a rain of dust, but he was too far into in his head to truly feel it. That was probably a blessing.

This was their fault, really, for trusting a dragon.

But that didn't make failing Nuri – and everyone else – any less bitter to taste.

There was a massive splash, and then it was cold. Kamil, flailing wildly to stay afloat, came back to himself with a jolt as jarring as the impact into the top of the castle. They'd landed in a pool, deep enough to break their fall and not their backs. They were flanked by marble pillars, the designs and calligraphy emblazoned on them dizzying with their intricacy. The number of shrill screams and bleats also did not escape his notice.

The great dome had roofed the throne room. Until now. Now, it was filled with ruin and floating rebels, a sight that must have been absolutely terror-inducing for the gaudily adorned Agrian nobility, if how they yelped and ran and cowered in the corners was any indication. It was just bad luck they'd broke into the palace while court was in session.

In front of the pool on a canopy-covered dais, a figure who was unmistakably the king of Agria sat, craned forward. There was dust in his otherwise well-groomed black beard and on the shoulders of his purple silken robe. His face was the only blank thing in the room.

"Shit," Greer said, somewhere behind him. Kamil was inclined to agree.

The king hoisted himself to his feet, raising his hands along with his voice. "Guards!" They came, the doors to the throne room bursting open, releasing a swarm of heavily armed men. Their faces were entirely shielded by helmets, the faceplates sculpted into a grotesque amalgamation of man and lion.

Their boots beat against the marble until they reached the edge of the pool, the tips of their spears pointed down towards the sodden intruders.

The king peered up, glaring against the sun that was now able to pour into the throne room. He turned his dark eyes to them. "Was that a fucking dragon?" He split a wide grin; slowly, he brought his palms together in a round of applause. "Bravo, bravo. You've brought me more entertainment in a minute than my jesters have managed in a year." Squinting, he came closer, the armed guard parting for him to allow his heavy scrutiny.

Under the water, Kamil shivered. The king looked them all over like they were livestock or lambs to the slaughter. He greatly disapproved of either analogy.

After a whole minute of contemplation, the king cocked his head to the side. "Did my little sister send you? Or are you Sacred Order spies, sent here to assassinate me?"

Met with all their silent glares, he shrugged, straightening back up. With a dramatic flourish of both hands, the king said, "Fine, keep your secrets. For now." He gave a sordid wink. "I've got people who are very good at getting those sorts of things out of the more…unwilling, shall we say. Guards, do haul them out of there." Lifting his robes to transverse the stairs, he returned to his throne. "Take them to Aberion, not the dungeons, not yet. We still have a party to attend to, after all. The guests of honor have only just arrived. I hope you like dancing. Oh, and for fuck's sake, somebody send for an architect."

Kamil reared back but didn't resist as a big fellow leaned down, grabbing him none too gently beneath the arms and plucking him from the pool as one would a speared fish. Much to his relief, the soldiers seemed to be brandishing their spears less threateningly now. Beside him, Omaria placed a dainty hand against the guard's chest plate, her indignation made clear by the way she held herself.

"I can walk, thanks." She sniffed, water dripping from her nose. With enough regality to challenge the mad king, Omaria waded through the pool until she stepped from it, chin turned up.

Kamil was uncertain of what she might do. If any word could describe her, it would be unyielding – and he knew for a fact she was powerful. Could these men with just their weapons and shields stand against her, against them, if they all worked together?

Taking his cues from the witch, Kamil made no violent move, nor did any other member of their party. They came peacefully, dripping water onto the colorful tiles. It seemed as if they would be biding their time.

Once they were out, the guards flanked them immediately, forming a sort of mobile cell with which to corral them. Out of the ruined throne room they went, squishing down gilded halls and through salons of tittering courtiers. Kamil made sure to smile and wink; he'd give them something to swish their fans at. One man, made distinctive by the interesting light patches against his tanned skin, winked back.

They were brought to another set of double doors, but these were different. Even Kamil, who liked to consider himself a modern man of unflappable nature, gawked at the carvings in the wood: men and women, men and men, women and women…and some, you just couldn't tell – all, ahem, enjoying themselves in various ways.

Matthias went vermilion. "I thought they were supposed to be conservative," he stage-whispered.

The guard at the front knocked, and Kamil's stomach twisted in nauseous anticipation of what sort of debauchery they'd be walking into. Now, he was sure he'd prefer the dungeons.

They cracked open with a slow and sickening creak. A man's white-blonde head popped out. With an unhidden and unashamed leer, he eyed them from head to foot. "Fresh blood?" He asked the guard, and Kamil nearly vomited.

Mortabela's blessings be with him, fore the guard shook his lion-man head and replied, "Keep your hands to yourself, Aberion, if you'd like to keep them. They're prisoners, prisoners the king requests at the ball. Your task is readying them."

The man sighed, a long lock of hair falling to obscure his vision. "If that is what the king wishes." He flashed a smile that made Kamil very uncomfortable. "But if he changes his royal mind, I am quite adept at extracting sensitive information."

The guard made a disgusted noise that mirrored how everyone probably felt upon listening to this Aberion character.

The man stepped back, one of the doors going with him. The guards pushed them forward. Crossing the threshold, the cloying scent of incense and herbs rendered the air thick, and Kamil leaned close to Omaria.

"Protect me from these people."

She shot him a wry glance, but he wasn't entirely joking. He wasn't joking at all.

"Are we…in a harem?" Cressida's blue-eyes were large, but no longer innocent, nor would they be ever again after witnessing the scenes in this place.

There were many panels and privacy screens, thank the gods, but that did nothing to dampen the noise. Noises.

Aberion, thankfully only naked on his top half, gestured around the offensive expanse. "Aren't you an astute little one? Yes, welcome to the king's most royal room of relief." He chuckled at his own wording. "Do not be so frightened. You're not here for that." He bit his lip. "Sadly. You're here for a make-over. The desert can be so unkind to a body."

"You're not getting anywhere near my body."

Again, he laughed. "So prudish. That's the downfall of Ethrias, you know. That, and their incessant Lux-worshipping, but that kind of goes hand in hand now, doesn't it. I am so glad I got out. Well," he clapped his hands together, "First things first. To the bathhouse!"

* * *

The water tasted like roses. At least, that's what Greer hoped she was tasting. The whore – not to be impolite, but that's simply what the woman was – dunked water over her head, again and again. She'd thought it best to stop resisting long ago. It wasn't so bad; she thanked her lucky stars she wasn't the one who got stuck with Aberion.

The woman, curls and curls of red-hair piled precariously atop her head, frowned like a disappointed mother. "When's the last time you had a bath, sweet? At this rate, we'll miss the ball."

Gritting her teeth against yet another torrential bucketful, Greer attempted to blink out the fragrant soap stinging her eyes. "There's not exactly a lot of water to go toward cleaning oneself in the wastes."

The woman tutted in what seemed like a sympathetic way. "That'll have to do. I don't think the dirt on your knees is ever coming out, so we may as well give up. You smell nice, at least. Stand."

Too irritated by her tone to be modest, Greer stood abruptly, water falling from her hair and limbs like it would from a dripping dog. Another prostitute, or perhaps just a servant, stepped forward and enveloped her into a fluffy towel. With one hand, she gripped it at her front.

The red-haired woman also stood, rising to her knees unsteadily. Underneath all that make-up, Greer wagered she had to be at least in her late forties. No retirement for royal whores, she guessed. Not an enviable job.

The woman's face was unreadable, and Greer felt awkward in the silence. Finally, she smiled. "Oh yes, you'll be beautiful in the dress."

"What dress?"

The woman turned her back, fussing with some jars of rose oil. "The one the king sent over for you, sweet. It's really very lovely."

She did not compute. "Why would the king send me a…" All the color in her face drained to the floor along with her chilled bathwater.

The other woman faced her with a fragile smile. "He likes your scar, sweet. It makes you unique from all of us here."

The hand clutching her towel turned white-knuckled. "I see." Her voice did not waver, but it was hollow.

She'd never harmed anyone before; growing up in the Order, she'd always considered herself lucky for that. So many things had changed. Once, she might have taken it, but Greer knew she would gut the king if he so much laid on a hand on her.

Perhaps perturbed by her stony silence, the red-haired woman's smile faded and again, she turned away. "I suppose we'll get you into that dress now, sweet."

People said Agrian woman were forced to hide themselves away, covered from head to toe. People had lied.

The dress the king had sent for her did not have enough material. Or rather, it was missing material in key places. If they were in any other country, Greer would become chilled and catch her death. Much to her misfortune, that would not be occurring here in Agria.

"I can't wear this," she tried.

The servant girl who was supposed to dress her, a petite thing who reminded Greer of a bird, stared at her with big, unfeeling eyes. "You'll have to."

She wanted to scream that no, she did not have to. She was a girl who turned her back on everything she once knew, who defied goddesses and end of the world prophecies, who rode on the backs of dragons – entitled kings, no matter how many unfortunates they'd strong-armed into their harems, meant nothing to her.

Instead, Greer condensed all that fury into her heart, made it small enough to fit there, and put on the damn dress.

They'd set her free, back into the care of the king's elite guard. She never thought she'd be so happy to be forcefully escorted somewhere, but this night was just full of surprises. Greer, arms wrapped around herself, was led down a hallway, in the opposite direction of the bathhouse and harem suites. Thank the gods.

The clips at the back of her head pinched into her scalp. It was a deceptively simple updo – as in, it appeared simple but, in actual application, wasn't – pulling the dark strands of her hair back tightly from her face. The pins were golden and dusted with a shimmer, much like the gilded filigree on the dress. The sheer pleats swished between her legs as she walked, reminding her with every step of the indignity of her situation.

Honestly, what was even happening.

They'd come here, dragon-borne, in an attempt to assist the princess's coup and to locate the first apocalypse key. Now they were being dressed up only to be paraded around a ball, taken prisoner by the very king they were sent to overthrow. The plan was hairbrained, loopy at best – not at all to Greer's own liking – but it seemed the most advantageous to wait until the princess revealed her hand, as to combine their forces.

At least they weren't being tortured. Not in the traditional sense.

A guard placed a chilling gauntlet on her forearm, pulling her to a forced stop. Greer waited for him to garble a command.

"A moment." Through the helmet, his voice was turned to something between an intonation and a growl.

She waited. The guard went over to a door, this one lined with gold and bronze leaves and not scandalizing depictions, and raised his meaty fist, banging against the hard surface once, twice, and then three times. Immediately after, yet another guard opened it.

"Yes?" This one asked. Greer was surprised to see him in different garb – a maroon military jacket with a sword hanging from his waist. The only armor he wore was a chest plate, silvery and etched, more likely decorative than practical.

"She's with the others. Wait until the King gives word before you release them to the ballroom."

The jacketed one nodded, stepping back and gesturing for her to come inside. Greer obliged, hoping the red train dragging behind didn't get stuck in the jam. A pro at ushering unwilling party guests, the officer allowed her plenty of time to pass before firmly closing the door.

Their voices reached her first. Greer's heart did a little leap, a happy one, entirely unlike the feeling from their earlier death plummet. Almost death plummet.

Cressida saw her first, stopping mid-suspicious whisper to raise both brows. "Look at you," she called as Greer made her way over to, much to her relief, her equally ridiculously outfitted friends.

Reminded of her current state, she crossed her arms over her chest. "The king sent it for me."

"The king?" Matthias's forehead lines deepened. "How have you had time to meet up with him?"

She scowled. "I haven't, thank Bahar. I've been informed he admires my scar."

Omaria eyed the offending garment with twinkling eyes. "Yes, that neckline does bring it out."

"What neckline?" quipped Matthias, "It goes straight from actual neck, to golden chest piece, to skin again."

Greer made out to slap him. "I'm pleased you find this so amusing."

Kamil tossed her a reassuring wink. "I'm only jealous I didn't get a dress like that. Tell me, how does one catch the attention of a monarch by simply crashing into his pool? I must know."

Alith leaned forward. "If what you say is true, use it to your advantage, Greer. No one else may have such a chance."

"Yes," Arren intoned, looking simply hysterical in a golden lyre headpiece, "You could gut him like a sacrificial pig in his own bedchambers. Rather poetic for a philandering king, isn't it?"

Olwen shook his head. "Greer is not a killer." He placed a large warm hand on her shoulder. "You do not have to do any of this – there is always another way."

Swallowing her unease, Greer gave him a slight smile. "Thank you, Olwen. Hopefully, it won't have to come to that."

Matthias nudged her shoulder, his brown-eyes cast in the direction of the guard. "Incoming."

There were three knocks on the door. The guard again peeked out, his conversation too hushed to hear across the room. Soon, he turned back around, features morphed into a blank mask.

He cleared his throat, speaking loudly. "Turn your attention to the His Royal Highness, the King."

The door was pushed open, a familiar lion-faced soldier at the front. Behind him was the king; behind him, three more masked men. His Royal Highness wore a heavily embellished tunic with trousers to match. On top of that, a ceremonial…cape of some sort flew back proudly from his shoulders. Red and gold with filigree. His outfit resembled hers.

Gods, she wanted to retch.

"I'm surprised we didn't hear him coming in that get-up," Cressida murmured, "But it should make keeping track of him easier – clink clink clink."

"My guests of honor!" He beamed at them, his beady eyes resting on Greer far too long for her liking. "Don't you clean up well. Aberion should get a medal for his service." He strode closer, steps marked by the irritating jingle of his trinkets. He came to stand directly in front of Greer. "I knew you'd look ravishing in it – you paint quite the picture, my dear. What is your name?"

His mere presence was a disturbance to her person. Without smiling, without any sort of pretense, she ground out, "Greer."

"What a homely Ethrian name," he laughed, "We may have to change it."

Before she could tell him what she thought of that, he moved on, ruby cape swishing. "All of you are about to experience the grandeur of my hospitality, but since I know I cannot trust you, I've elected to give you a fair warning." His grin remained unaffected by the words he spoke. "If you try anything in there, I will not hesitate to have your blood stain my floors. I will not have you, or anyone – not the Order, not the rebels, not the clerics – spoil the evening festivities. If you do, you will regret it; my guards are not the only deadly forces I have amassed within these walls. Now," he spread out his arms wide, and Greer couldn't help but notice how, if she had her bow, it would allow the perfect shot to his heart. "Let it begin!"

Someone's grip dug into her arm. Greer whipped her head around to see Omaria, her expression something hungry. "Do not fret about the king," she hissed, "By sunrise, he and his city will be naught but ash."

"What do you mean?"

"Tasarr and I have an understanding." Omaria stepped back, offering no further explanation for her cryptic words.

Having been released, Greer rubbed the place on her arm where the witch had touched. They followed the mad king and his guards, and she tried to ignore the alarm bells ringing in her head. This ball was going to be a bloodbath, one way or another.

* * *

They were not allowed to go directly to the ballroom. Held back by the guards, his most kingly had to be allowed entrance first, and he simply could not be seen arriving with the dome-crushing prisoners. Even still, there was much to be seen and heard just outside of it.

Kamil took Omaria's arm. "What do you want me to do?"

In her gown, she resembled a benevolent goddess – all spun white-gold and gleaming edges. If she was a goddess, Omaria would most likely be the dark kind.

Casting an indifferent gaze at the milling gentry, she leaned close as she spoke. "Stay out here until the second bell rings – be no later than the third. I have reason to believe the key is somewhere close."

Nodding, he made to move away, but her nails digging into his skin stopped him short. She stared at him with grave intensity. "Kamil, be careful – there is darkness in this place."

He gave her hand a gentle pat. "Don't worry about me. Curiosity hasn't ever killed this cat." He grinned, "Save a dance for me, yeah?"

She scowled with warmth; somehow, it was possible. "Not a chance."

He brought a hand to his chest. "You wound me yet again." Over her shoulder, Kamil could see the guards ushering guests into the ballroom. "You'd better go. Take care of the others in there."

Before the anyone could notice his presence, Kamil used the crowd at his back to disappear – it was just like old times, as easy to go unnoticed at a ball as it was on the streets, if you knew what you were doing. Slipping in-between peacock feathers and beaded frocks, he kept his hands close to himself, resisting the latent urge to pick some pockets. Not the time, though these people would no doubt deserve that and worse.

If Omaria was right, worse was on its way.

There was a statue of a man – probably the king, knowing his pompous arse – running a beastly sized lion through with a spear. Kamil wasn't interested in the art, just the darkened alcove between it and the wall. It would be the perfect spot to ride out the tide of guests. Then, once it was mostly clear, he could do some investigating.

It was a tight fit, but more importantly, from beneath the violent scene, he had a vantage point of who came and went. Kamil settled in, ignoring the cramps already beginning to form in his thighs from hunkering down.

"Now we wait," he said to the lion, stroking its gilded mane.

He waited and waited and waited.

After about half an hour, or however long it took for one to lose all feeling in their legs, the vestibule outside the ballroom was almost devoid of party-goers. There were a few stragglers, but from the looks of them, they were those either too sloshed to be polite or those who wanted a little more…privacy.

The only concern was the servants. Kamil knew better than to think they were all subservient, meek little puppets, serving drinks and awaiting orders. No, they had eyes and ears keener than most, and with them, they knew the goings-on better than anyone. Avoiding them was the simplest, most preferred option, but often the option available wasn't the most preferred.

Ducking out of his alcove, Kamil adopted a swaying shuffle to his gait. If asked, he'd had too much to drink. The back of his neck prickling with nerves, hands becoming clammy with a cold sweat, he almost wished he'd something to drink.

Everyone else was in the ballroom. There was no way of knowing what was truly going on in there. No one was screaming – yet, at least – so it couldn't be anything worse than courtly intrigues and waltzing. They could handle themselves, nothing to worry about.

He had to think about himself, himself and Nuri. That's how it had always been. These last few weeks, galivanting across the countryside (two different countrysides, in fact) made Kamil all kinds of confused.

He cared about Omaria – about everyone in their ragtag little group, strangely. Affection was a flighty thing, and it had a way of popping up in places it wasn't wanted or needed, like a damn weed. But there was no point in denying it.

Kamil cared. He'd like to think, in ideal situations, that he was a caring person, that he did The Right Thing, but he wasn't a hero. He was a con artist. A Gifted. A flirt. A scoundrel. A brother. Never a hero.

You can't change the things you are.

There was a balcony, a clean white arch splashed against the rich color of the inside walls. Kamil made his way out onto it, palms bracing against the banister, the polished stone smooth against his skin.

His breaths came in harder, lungs gulping in the cool night air.

"Get it together," he hung his head, knuckles turning white, "They're better off without you. You were never going to stay."

"You know," A smooth voice called, "It isn't safe to linger alone, in the night."

Kamil nearly jumped over the banister, a puff of air escaping from his lips. Leaning against the arch illuminated by the golden glow of candlelight from inside was a finely dressed man, the bracers he wore shining like beacons. Sharp, clawed beacons.

He came forward. "Unless," the man continued, "You're attempting a brave escape."

Kamil narrowed his eyes in recognition. The man was the noble from earlier when they were marched through the salons – the splashes of white against his otherwise olive skin were unmistakable. From here, Kamil could also make out a distinctive jawline and bright, glittering eyes.

Very aware of just how little space there was between himself and the mystery man and his back and a potentially deadly drop off the balcony, Kamil twisted his features into a weary smile. "Not a brave escape."

The man raised a brow, hand on hip. "You don't look like a coward to me."

Kamil laughed, still keeping his guard up. "That's reassuring. What do I look like?"

"Someone who could use a friend."

His smile wavered. "I have too many friends already. I'm afraid that's the problem."

"Is that so? I don't see how it's possible for one to have too many friends, but perhaps that's better for me."

"And who actually are you?"

The man bent at the waist, extending a well-muscled arm and bowing elaborately. "Avitus. Avitus of House Venandi."

Kamil attempted a cheap imitation of a bow. "Kamil Arazi of…House Arazi – charmed."

Avitus returned to his full height. "What brings you here, Kamil?"

Lifting a careless shoulder, he decided deflection was best. "The balcony, or the party? I thought everyone knew – I'm with the new court jesters."

"Well, you're certainly very funny. And wonderful at making impressions. The dragon riding foreigners are all anyone can speak about."

"Glad to get the tongues wagging."

"I'm sure you usually do."

Kamil couldn't hide his smirk, despite the situation. "Avitus of House Venandi, are you coming on to me?"

The other man's face looked aghast. "Can you really not tell? I must be out of practice."

Kamil's laugh was genuine. "I'm only surprised – after all, I am a dragon riding foreigner."

"Why is that surprising? Perhaps that's my type, that and tall, dark, and handsome." He moved further out onto the balcony. "You happen to fit the order."

"I do live to please," Kamil said, eying over his unexpected companion. Avitus, if he were who he claimed to be – Gods, he'd been spending too much time with Omaria, her and her constant suspicions – was indeed pleasant to look at. More than pleasant. But what did that matter?

Kamil'd been in the middle of a crisis, a moral dilemma. Attractive company didn't make things better. Well, perhaps just a bit better – scenery did heavily affect one's mood.

Avitus, with a light tone, asked, "Are you still planning to run away, Kamil?" He came to lean against the banister, peering down over it. "It would be quite a fall."

"I don't know," he joked, "I seem to have been blessed with good luck when it comes to falling from dangerous heights."

"You may be on to something." Kamil didn't miss how his gaze flicked to his lips before returning to his eyes. "But I think I'd better stand close to you, just to make sure you don't try it."

Well. That was interesting. His cheeks felt warm, no doubt from a rush of blood, and blood was rushing. Curse his own inability to resist a pretty face.

 _You're in a crisis, Kamil, a crisis. Behave yourself._

Ever unable to heed good advice, even if it was his own, Kamil reached out, tracing a line down the other man's decorative bracer; it was cool to the touch. "In that case, I think I better come closer – for safety reasons."

"For safety reasons," Avitus agreed, voice deepened to a low murmur.

Their lips met, and Kamil quickly came to the realization, it was not safe.

Avitus hadn't pulled a knife or anything so outwardly malevolent, but he may as well have for all the dangerous sensations Kamil began to feel. Sparks as jolting as a lightning strike catapulted up and down his spine, toes curling in his boots. He saw…flashes, actual flashes of a life that was not his own – memories.

Avitus' memories.

With a final swipe of tongue, Kamil pulled away, heart racing, chest heaving. Avitus stumbled back, bracing himself against the banister. His eyes were wide, his expression one of fright or …awe.

"You're – you're a Gifted." He breathed.

Was there any point in denying it? It was the last thing he should admit to; he didn't know Avitus, probably couldn't trust him but…but Kamil wanted to. Slowly, as if to prolong the inevitable, he said, "Guilty."

Avitus fell silent. It was uncomfortable. It was almost a certainty he regretted ever stepping foot onto the balcony this evening. Kamil almost felt as if he should apologize.

"That explains that," Avitus said, finally. "That explains…all of it."

"All of what?"

The man looked as if he were preparing to weather a storm. "Me being so drawn to you, the memory transfer." He breathed in deeply. "I'm a mage, Kamil – by birth. I could feel your magic."

His mind whirled. There were no such things as birth mages; if there were, how was it even possible? They'd been taught magic could only be granted from Mortabela, that it was dark, unnatural – against the very nature of humanity itself. But if someone could be born with magic…

"How?" Kamil ignored the still-present tingling in his lips.

"I understand your skepticism, Kamil, especially given your status as one of the Gifted. I can't imagine the sort of things—" He stopped himself, noting the sensitivity of the subject. "I saw darkness, in your memories. I'm sorry for the pain your life has brought. Myself? I've been very lucky. My family – we are all mages. It runs in our bloodline. Some of my uncles claim it's elven heritage, from ancestors long ago. It's even been said we're descendants of Oberis himself, from during the dark years he roamed the earth. Others believe it's a curse. But it doesn't truly matter, does it?" He held out his palm, a soft burst of light dancing from his fingertips and vanishing into the night sky. "We are what we are."

"We are what we are," Kamil echoed, staring after the evanescent trail Avitus' light had left behind.

"And you're not a coward." The sudden ferocity of his voice took Kamil by surprise. "I know what you're here to do." His mouth pressed into a firm line, Avitus took one of Kamil's hands in his own. "King Adham deserves to die, and your friends need you. I—I can help. Just tell me, tell me something I can do."

Kamil looked into his eyes long and hard. In them he saw conviction, determination, truth – he saw someone he could trust. Somehow, he just knew it. "I have a sister. Her name is Nuri, and she's here in the city all by herself." Kamil swallowed down the acidic taste of guilt. "I left her a while ago and – she has to be taken away from here. Tonight. Bad things are going to happen; she needs to be safe."

Avitus squeezed his hand. "I'll find her. How will I let her know you sent me?"

He thought for a moment. "Tell her she's still my little fire."

Avitus nodded, opening his mouth to speak, but a loud gong interrupted, reverberating off the walls. The first bell.

"How long until the second bell?"

"Not long," Avitus frowned, "Five minutes or so. Why, is something wrong?"

"I have to be in the ballroom befor— What is that?"

They both fell silent, craning to hear over the night's breeze. Kamil felt as if he were dunked in ice water.

It was the distant but unmistakable sound of screams.

* * *

 _ **A/N:**_ So I was thinking the other day how when authors publish a novel it's heavily edited and revised and that's why it's so good, and here I am never editing, serving it up to you guys in a garbage state. I am truly, truly sorry.

It's November guys - day four of NaNoWriMo. I've already screwed up my word count. *sighs* But at least I'm updating, amirite?

Please, as always, tell me what you think! Reviews make a bad day better.

Until next time, au revoir!


	14. City at War

How these things were supposed to be fun was beyond her, but then again, they weren't here for entertainment. They were here to be the entertainment. That, at least, seemed to be the role the sniveling little king would have them play.

If Cressida had to defend herself from one more cooing noble who had more wine running through their veins than blood, she'd have to declare it open season. No matter she didn't have a weapon. If there was a single thing that could be attributed to the Order, it would be the swift and efficient molding of children to killers. In other words, it wouldn't be the first time she'd had to strangle someone, and it probably wouldn't be the last. Sipping daintily out of a goblet of wine, the bittersweet taste heavy on her tongue, she noted that fact should bother her more than it did.

But it wasn't a night to worry about moral decline – there was enough weighing on her mind as it were.

"I wish you wouldn't drink that," Matthias sighed, struggling with the glittering neckline of his tunic. "It could be laced with poison."

"I doubt even that fusty nut would poison his own guests," She gestured about the room with her goblet, tiny beads of red liquid spilling over the side to drip to the tilework like blood, "Just look – no one is dropping. Sadly."

Olwen peered down into the bronze cup, giving the pungent alcohol a hearty waft. "If there is any poison, it is scentless." He dipped a finger into it before popping that same finger into his mouth. "And tasteless. I do not think it's poisoned."

Matthias blanched. "And of course you have to sample it to find out. I'll have you know, there are hundreds of poisons, many of which bear no trace until you're vomiting out your vital organs on to the floor."

Olwen seemed to think that was funny, laughing in that full-throated Testroyvi way.

"So dramatic." Cressida polished off her wine, setting the empty goblet onto the tray of a passing servant. "A little liquid courage never hurt anybody."

"That is entirely a false statement. I don't think it's a stretch to say alcoholism may have harmed more innocents than poison ever could."

"One drink will not magically turn her into an alcoholic, Matthias," Olwen chided, eyes full of mirth.

"One drink is where it starts," Matthias said, "Next thing you know she'll be dancing about the place in her smallclothes."

Cressida snorted. "They'd just love that. Do you think I'd be executed for impropriety?"

"For impropriety?" Olwen shook his head, "No. I think they'd join you."

Matthias full body shuddered. "Like the bathhouse all over again."

"We agreed to never talk about the bathhouse. Never."

The smile on Olwen's face froze and shattered, the death glare replacing it enough to have both Cressida and Matthias scrambling to see what caused such a deadly shift.

When she found it, Cressida underwent a similar transformation, "Somebody tell me, why haven't we killed him yet?"

Almost the moment they'd been granted access to the ballroom, the king had requested Greer's presence at his side. No one wanted her to go. The only thing that held Cressida back from launching herself at the tyrant's throat was knowing they were mere hours away from dethroning the bastard. He deserved to die, but only after watching everything he cared for ripped away from him.

As Ailith had said then – when Cressida had seen nothing but red and the desire to drench the room in it – patience was the hand behind the killing blow in plotting a successful regicide.

Seeing the king parade Greer around in a false imitation of a couple's dance, seeing the discomfort and disgust displayed plain on her face, Cressida decided patience could go screw itself and all of its virtuous cousins.

She shoved between Matthias and Olwen, deftly avoiding Matthias's grab for her wrist. "Cressida – what are you doing?"

"I'm going to hurry up this revolution."

Strides long and determined, she kept her eyes trained on the king and Greer, following their movements as he spun her unwillingly through the motions. It was all she could see.

Men like the king, the Avatar – men with twisted, delusional minds and the means to make them dangerous. They couldn't have whatever they wanted. Use whoever they wanted. They couldn't just take people away.

She was almost there, almost to them, until someone stepped directly into her path. Someone big.

Snarling, Cressida tried to sidestep around them. "Move." Her voice was ice, steely resolve.

The man didn't blink. He wore the livery of the palace servants, but he didn't look like them. Hulking, scarred, bearded. "Would you like the kitchen's special option, miss?"

She narrowed her eyes. This man was suspicious and…familiar. Slowly, still keeping watch of Greer from her peripheral, she asked him, "What does the special option entail?"

He offered her a slight smile. "Follow me, please." When he turned, it struck her. His side profile, his scar – he was Drakon, Ailith's hunter friend. How in the gods' name did he get here?

Trailing him across the room, Cressida kicked herself for not recognizing him sooner. The village in Testroyva – it seemed so long ago now.

The fire, nearly losing Leon only to have him choose to leave her… she actively tried to keep it far from her mind. The painful present was always preferable over the pain of the past.

Drakon led her to the buffet. Mountains of food, of decorated excess: appetizers, little cakes, flaming drinks – anything she could name, and many things she couldn't. Fancy, but not what she'd had in mind.

"Uuh," She started, "This is—"

He held up a finger. The first bell rang. And then the wall behind the throne exploded.

The ringing in her ears made it difficult to hear the screams, and the screams made it difficult to hear Drakon. He was saying something before he flipped the entire buffet, the foods splattering and splatting. Something red stained her dress, but that was bound to happen anyway; she thought it'd be blood. The underside of the counter was an arsenal – strapped to it were bows, axes, swords and daggers. There was even a staff.

"Take what you need," Drakon was saying, reaching for a wicked sharp war-ax.

Cressida went for the swords – they weren't hers, but they would do. Panic clawed up her spine, fighting with the feelings of surety the swords brought as smoke filled her nostrils. Where were the others?

If they were near the blast—

As soon as the thought emerged in her mind, someone barged into her from behind, clinging to her upper arm. It was Matthias, dust coating his hair. Olwen and Ailith were with him; the others… nowhere in sight.

"What happened?"

Drakon handed him a sword that Matthias gaped at. "The Princess has arrived," he said simply.

Ailith briefly embraced him. "It's good to see you."

"And I you – Bahar smiles on us."

"Enough of the religious nonsense," Cressida snapped, already feeling the heat from the flames at the front of the ballroom. "Where's Greer? Last time I saw her, she was still with the king."

"There." Olwen pointed. Through the smoke, Cressida could make out many figures – two groups, closing in on each other. Anyone of them could be Greer.

"We must ensure the Princess' survival," Drakon said, passing daggers to Ailith and rising to his full height.

"And the King's demise." Ailith finished, testing the weight of the gleaming weapons in her hands.

Up ahead of them, between the flames, strode men and women, their garb marked by the desert, faces shrouded by hoods – at the head of them was a woman, her face uncovered. By the way she held herself, Cressida knew it was Princess Talismah.

They made haste to join her, crossing over huddled bodies – some were corpses, mangled by the blast. Cressida kept taking deep breathes, in and out; this wasn't new. Put everything in its place. Just bodies, not people.

Inside, through her cultivated sense of an uneasy calm, she still felt sick.

The desert warriors brandished their khopesh swords but fell back with a simple hand gesture from the Princess. She regarded them with keen, serious eyes. "Well met, allies. Today is a glorious day for Agria." At the hunter, she dipped her partially shaved head. "Drakon."

"Princess," he acknowledged. "Ready to spill some lion blood?"

A deranged bellow sang out over the chaos.

"Little sister," the king roared, "Come to the party, have you? I'm afraid you were not invited."

The princess' entire body language changed, a predator ready to strike. "Brother," she called back, "I hardly need an invitation to come to my own home."

The fire and the smoke acted as an illusion, a shadowy form materializing in and out. From the voice, it was the king, but assuming was dangerous. Cressida gripped the hilts of her swords, the discomfort it brought keeping her alert.

"No. This is no longer your home. You've betrayed me."

"And you betrayed the people!" Talismah snarled, "Stand down, Adham. Surrender and you can keep your life."

"You think you and your little army are a match for me?" The smoke shifted, the man's face becoming visible for a second. Cressida shuddered.

His smile was wide, too wide, his teeth sharper than any human's had a right to be. His eyes, they were black pools of tar – no whites, no irises. They glittered black, reflecting the fires now blazing around them.

The desert warriors swore, signing to the gods. The Princess made a sound of sadness. "What have you done to yourself, brother." It was but a murmur, not for him to hear.

And somehow, he heard it.

Now behind them, the king, or perhaps what was the king no longer, crooned, "I have become powerful." His voice became hollow, forming a circle around them, an echo whispering from all sides. "I have become what I was always meant to be. I can save our people from the end now, Talismah."

He stepped out of the smoke. Or rather, they stepped out of it – six kings, each more monstrous and less human than the last. Knowing which one was the real one would be impossible as each spent a moment flickering back to normality before morphing into a demonic creature once more. If there even was a _real_ king anymore.

"By the gods," Olwen whispered, "He has sundered himself – labem umbra."

What had become of Greer? She'd been with this…this actual monster before things had gone to shit. She had to be alive – Cressida was done saying goodbye to the people she cared about.

The demon kings threw back their heads, shrieking like the wind through the eves in the worst of storms. Their talon-like claws dripping something black and oozy onto the floor, they lunged forward. With less than a second to prepare herself, Cressida crossed the swords in front of her face, deflecting a blow that would have slit her throat. She looked the demon in its cold, dead eyes and saw nothing but herself looking back, reflected small and frightened.

And that's who she really was, down at her core – a little girl, struggling just to stay alive and fighting in a den of monsters, forced to watch her loved ones die. The monsters wanted her to know they would always win.

Cressida screamed, not a release of pain or fear, but anger – a banshee's war cry. She kicked the beast away from her, sending it sprawling back into the flames.

The monsters may win, but not before they knew what it felt like to burn, to feel fear and loss. She would repay the pain a thousand times and walk backward into death, just so they could see her smile.

* * *

Leon had awoken that morning drenched in a cold sweat. Even now, hours later, the chill had seeped into his blood, his bones, the nightmares chasing him into the day. The exact details had escaped his waking mind, as dreams are wont to do, but even without the memories, he knew they were the worst dreams he'd ever had in his life.

Because in his dream, she'd left him, traveling to a dark place that he could not follow. In his dream, Cressida had died. Again and again, she was snatched away, out of his reach. The worst part, perhaps, was the utter helplessness – he was right there, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. Cressida always died.

Someone clapped him on the back – hard – their gauntlet clanking against his armor. He thought it'd be Killian, but he thought wrong. The grim face of their newly appointed field Commander stared back at him.

Commander Kelus was to fill in for the Legate, whose injuries were still healing. He and Killian suspected the true reason for his prolonged recovery period was the Avatar's mercurial change in demeanor. They were no doubt up to something back at the Fortress.

"Whatever's on your mind, clear it – now's not the time, soldier."

Leon stood at attention. "Yes, Commander."

She nodded, the fan atop the helmet she wore catching the breeze. She trotted to the front of the legion, where the battering ram was prepared to make the first strike against Agrian walls.

The Commander banged her shield. "All of you, listen. We are about to siege a city plagued by heretics. The people you see within these walls – they may look like civilians, but they are not. They have been tainted by darkness, and it is our holy duty to Lux, to our brothers and sisters, to show them the light!"

A cry went up throughout the ranks, punctuated by the pounding of fist on shield. Commander Kelus raised an arm; the soldiers on the battering ram stood at attention, waiting. Her hand arched down, the ram released. The crash was incredible. The ground shook. The ram went back and forward again. On impact, a fissure appeared in the stone, fanning out like roots. On the third blow, the wall crumbled in. Dust welled up from the destruction, and through it, the Order soldiers charged in, ready to whet their swords with blood.

"For Lux! For the Avatar!"

The Commander's roar was fed back to her verbatim, an angry sound, a declaration of hate. It made Leon want to flee in the other direction, but he was pushed forward, a drowning man in the tide. Like the others, he clambered through the gaping rupture they'd made in the wall, the adrenaline keeping him from stumbling over chunks of sandstone and whatever else had been unlucky enough to be in the way.

The screaming had already started.

The first tactic of invasion the Order employed was to destabilize the area, sow chaos and disruption – around him, the Ignis ædificantes were carrying out that task, unleashing their carafes of Living Fire. Quick strikes of the flint, a flick of the wrist, a touch of sparks – and the whole area was up in flames.

Wherever they were, it looked to be a market district. Populated, filled with shops and wares and tents and trinkets, all so close together, all so easily burnt.

The fire illuminated their movements, flashing off armor and sword, flashing off the whites of eyes, turning the spill of blood into a ruby glow. It was cast across the sand, stained on cloth and skin, vibrant. The violence was a whirl, life and death happening all around him – but he stood still, outside of it, sword heavy in his hand.

Someone crashed into him. A woman, spear protruding through her chest, fell right into his arms, slicking his armor with so much red. It smelled familiar, wet and rich and wrong. Her eyes were stretched wide, hazed over, glassy – they could be fake. It could all be fake.

"Help me," Her voice was a quiet rasp, a raindrop in a hurricane, but Leon heard it as if it were screamed into his ear.

Help me help me help me help.

She felt like a doll, something he could break, but she was already broken.

The smoke burnt his nose, made his eyes water. A tear streaked down his cheek. It was the smoke, just the smoke.

"I can't."

She couldn't hear him, her body now a heavy, lifeless thing in his grasp. But her eyes – they were blue, and they were still looking straight at him. They begged him to help her.

"I can't." His throat felt like it was on fire. "I can't help anyone." The woman's corpse slid down his front, thudding to the sand. "I'm sorry."

There were hands on his shoulders, and he was shaken violently, causing his ears to pop. "Leon – Leon, listen to me," The hands turned him around – it was Killian, skin flushed, slicked with sweat and blood. He was covered in it, from gauntlets to greaves. "We have to get out of here. Now."

Leon stared back at him – he was too far into his own mind, too far away to comprehend words.

Killian shook him again with all the gentleness as before. "Are you hearing me? We have to fucking go. I messed up, Leon – I killed Kelus."

That didn't make any sense. Sluggishly, slowly, he asked, "Kelus is dead?"

"She's dead because I fucking killed her." His face morphed from fearful to confusion and finally, firmly to fury. "They were slaughtering kids, man, little kids."

Leon nodded. Reality was slowly leaking back in. "Alright," he nodded again. A plan. They needed a plan, but first, they needed to make a break for it. "Let's go."

The only direction he consciously picked was away from the slaughter, away from the Order and their holy fire. He ran hard, the sound of Killian's boots and breathing close behind him.

They were deserters. This was deserting. But with every meter he put between himself and the carnage behind him, the shame associated with that term diminished to nothing.

What would he be? What would he be if he stayed, if he followed his goddess-given duty?

A murderer at best, a monster in a man's body.

This wouldn't save the fallen – it wouldn't bring them back – but if Leon could protect one innocent life from the hands of prosecution, it would all be worth it. He would never stand idly by again. He would never be helpless again – to all the gods, he swore it.

The sounds of battle – no, massacre – died down, drowned out by the many twists and turns, alleys and backways they'd taken. Even still, Leon would always hear it. The screams of the dying, the groans of pain, the crackle of flames – they rang in his ears, hollow and haunting.

He stopped to breathe, exhaling the arid fumes of destruction. It seemed they reached the residential sector of the city and, from the look of things, it wasn't the nice part, a far leap from the golden and glittering images usually used to depict Guele d'Or Du Lion. But poverty didn't matter to the Order; they'd raze it all the same.

Killian craned back over his shoulder, his whip sword still unsheathed, fingers flaking with rust-colored red and gripped tight around the hilt. "We shouldn't stop here. It's—"

The panicked noises of someone crashing through the rows of the garbage lining the narrow alley had both Leon and Killian flashing their weapons. A dart of movement alerted them to potential hostile's position and Killian dove in.

A petite figure, covered in a cloak. They yelped, kicking out at him as he hauled them from the mess.

"Stop," He ground out, wrangling their wayward jerks with the hand not occupied with the whip sword.

Letting out a breath he didn't realize he was holding, Leon returned his sword to its sheath. "Killian, it's okay." Slowly, with a hand out, he approached like one would do to a skittish horse. Making no sudden movements, he pushed back the cloak from the person's face. "It's just a little girl."

A little girl with short black hair, the unruly strands sticking up in all directions. What struck Leon the most was her eyes – one of them was milky white, but the other was wild with fury. There was fear there, but her anger towards them, he could practically feel it radiating out from her small frame.

He knew what they must look like to her: two Order soldiers, stained with the blood of her people, killing machines – monsters.

Swallowing down his guilt, Leon lowered himself to his knees. "It's okay," he told her, trying his hardest to inject every ounce of genuine apology, of kindness, into his words, "We're not going to hurt you."

The child regarded him stonily. A beat passed – she opened her mouth, projecting a glob of spit that struck against his chest-plate, streaking in the blood already present there.

Killian sighed. "What did you expect? We should just let her go."

Leon glared daggers up at him. "And leave her here to be murdered or burnt or worse?" Softening his features, he returned his gaze to her. "My name is Leon – I'm not a soldier anymore. That's why we're hiding here, too; we're in big trouble with the Order."

She didn't so much as twitch. If it weren't for the pulse visibly pounding away at her throat, Leon would have feared she was dead.

"You look like a smart girl," Leon felt panic push its way into his chest – gods, he didn't know what to say. "Do you have any family around here?"

The blast of fire that streaked past his head took him entirely by surprise, the explosion it caused tearing stonework from the building to the right of them, debris raining down over their heads. Leon didn't think, ripping the child from Killian's grasp and tucking his body around her. Killian didn't need to be told to take cover, dropping into a roll and bracing himself behind the opposite corner.

Another blast, but Leon had been remiss to call it fire – it wasn't. He'd never seen anything like it; it could be better described as…energy, as burning hot white-light.

"Give." Another shot. "Me." And another. "The." The light lit up the entire alleyway. "Girl."

It was a man's voice, and, from the sound of things, he was furious.

Over the top of the girl's head, Leon made eye-contact with Killian. They were both in tactically disadvantageous positions, but Leon couldn't do much while with her. Killian would need to draw the fire, but that didn't mean Leon couldn't distract the Gifted.

The girl whimpered into his shoulder, and he stroked her hair. He wished he could make her believe it would all turn out alright, but truthfully, Leon didn't quite believe that himself.

"Easy," he called to the man, "This doesn't have to end in violence."

The man drew closer, footsteps echoing off the stone. "Violence is the only thing you Order scum understand."

Through the shadows, Killian held up a hand, all five fingers extended – a moment later, he brought one down. He would move in four.

"Says the Gifted who fires without asking."

"I gave you a warning shot. And now I'm warning you again – release the girl."

"What's she to you?"

The man's shadow was now visible on the shattered stone above them. "I don't have to tell you anything."

"Then how am I supposed to know you aren't some pedophilic slaver, huh?"

He laughed, cruelly. "That's rich, coming from well-known child murderers."

Killian was crouched low, at the very edge of the corner. He was at one.

"Fair enough." Leon called, "I guess we'll have to agree to disagree."

"Enough of this—"

What was no doubt another threat was cut short due to Killian's wild burst into the alleyway. The Gifted loosed a sizzling ball of energy, but Killian used his momentum to run up the wall, avoiding the blast. Kicking off, he launched his full body at the trigger-happy Gifted. The man cried out, Killian's considerable weight sprawling them both to the ground and down the short set of unforgiving stairs.

Leon, holding the girl to him, jumped to his feet, following their descent. At the bottom of the stairs, the Gifted lay seething, a dagger held at his throat.

"Now," Leon said, drawing closer to get a better look, shifting the girl's weight to his hip, "Tell us who you are."

The Gifted, a man who appeared to be around he and Killian's age, patches of white stark against his olive skin, snarled up at him. "If you've hurt her—"

Killian leaned forward, drawing a small line of blood with the edge of the blade. "Relax, spotty, the only one getting hurt here is you."

"Killian, stop it." Leon saw the concern – and rage – written on the Gifted's face. He acted as if he truly cared for the girl's well-being. Perhaps they'd misread the situation. To the girl, he asked, softly, "Do you know him?"

She stared down at the man's face, scrutinizing every inch of him with a keen, cold gaze. "No."

Killian returned the press of the dagger. "Well, looks like you die—"

"Nuri!" The man struggled to sit up. "Listen to me, please. Your brother sent me – he told me to tell you, you'll always be his little fire."

Her face, emotionless up to this point, blossomed into a radiant picture of hope. "Kamil? Kamil's still alive?"

"Yes," The Gifted nodded, bravely considering the weapon still at his throat, "He's at the palace. He sent me to find you and take you somewhere safe. I—" He looked to be on the brink of breaking down, "I didn't think I'd get to you in time."

Kamil. The Gifted – Kamil. It all clicked.

"What a minute," Killian groaned, "That Kamil?"

The girl – Nuri – kicked and pushed at Leon, and he nearly dropped her. "I want to see him." Her blows were dampened by his armor. "Take me to my brother!"

In an attempt to keep her from hurting herself, Leon set Nuri on her feet, keeping a firm hold on one of her bony wrists.

"No!" The Gifted exclaimed. "The palace is the last place for you – it's a battleground now, complete with demons." He focused his sharp eyes on Leon. "Please, let me take her."

"If Kamil's up there," Killian was saying, "The others probably are too."

"The others?" The man echoed. "Yes, Kamil is with them — you're with the Order defectors, aren't you? I'm afraid you came too late; they're overrun."

His heart constricted, a physical stab of pain inside his ribcage. Cressida, the dreams —

"We have to go to the palace." He let Nuri go. "Now."

* * *

The cuts sang with pain. Whatever coated the shade kings' claws sizzled into the flesh around it, burning into the blood. Cressida felt hot all over, muscles heavy – she was exhausted. Feint. Deflect. Lunge. Repeat.

The shades or demons or whatever they were – they wouldn't die, just peeled themselves up from the floor, took fatal wounds, and kept on coming.

From somewhere behind her, Cressida heard Matthias cry out – a shade caught him above the eye, splitting the skin there into a dripping red trench.

"Matthias!" She plunged both swords into the creature's back. It roared, twisting back at an unnatural angle to swipe at her.

Olwen was there, bringing down a maul that severed its hand from its arm. Black blood sprayed across Cressida's face – it tasted as bad as it looked. Praying she wasn't poisoned – gods, what if she turned into one of those things – she knelt by Matthias.

"Let me see it," she demanded, battling to pry back the hands he had clasped over his wound. Dark blood leaked between his fingers, making her stomach twist in fear of seeing the damage.

All around them, there was fighting – Cressida didn't know who was alive anymore and who wasn't.

Olwen, face streaked with grime and sweat and demon muck, spared a moment to caress a hand against Matthias's forehead. He stood back up. "I'll cover you."

"Olwen!" Matthias moved his hands, revealing an eye running wet with blood, "Don't die."

"Not today," Olwen said, forcing a smile that looked too much like a goodbye. He turned his back on them, plowing his maul into three monsters at once.

"Is it bad?" Matthias asked – his voice did not shake.

It was hard to tell, but… "You still have your eye, so."

He visibly swallowed. "Then I'm okay." He stood, only slightly stumbling, sword still gripped awkwardly in his hand.

Cressida righted her stance, feeling about as nimble as if she were cast from lead. "Back to it then," she mumbled.

There was no visibility. Breathing hurt, the air too hot and toxic with smoke. There were bodies everywhere – nobles, servants, rebels, soft and slick hurdles to trip over. Greer could be among them; if they didn't get out soon, they all would be.

"You," A wet, clammy palm closed around Cressida's ankle. She was less than a blink away from sinking her blades into his gut before she realized it was one of the princess's fallen warriors.

He coughed, burbling out a dark, syrupy liquid. "Get the Princess – the city's been taken…taken by the—the Order." He exhaled a hard breath – his last, eyes frozen over in death.

"The Order?" Matthias asked, alarmed, "They're here?"

Leon.

She'd thought of him, ached for him – and there he was, adorned in heavy Order battle armor, blood-soaked and looking just how she'd seen him so many times before. Like a dream in a nightmare, like an actual knight come to save her, battle worn, emerging out of the smoke.

Which was how she knew he couldn't be real.

It was the exhaustion. The heat. The demon blood.

Because Leon wasn't here. He'd left her, he'd left her back in Testroyva. He wasn't here – he was somewhere safe.

But if he wasn't here, how was he coming closer to her – how did the expression on his face scream so vividly of hope and relief and release and fear, and if he wasn't real, why was her heart begging her to go to him, to plead with him to stay. To ask, on hands and knees, to never leave her again.

She didn't, and she didn't have to, because he came to her. His gauntlet covered hands came up like wanted to embrace her but got lost on the way, hovering just in front of her shoulders.

"Cressida," he breathed, looking at her so intensely, as if he were afraid she would vanish if he blinked for a moment.

It was his voice, the same voice that used to tell her stories on the nights sleep danced out of her reach. The same voice that used to chastise her for casual blasphemy. The same voice that laughed with her, cried with her. The same voice of the boy who told her he loved her, told her that and left.

"Cressida," his eyes were wide, bloodshot, and she could just tell, he'd seen too much tonight, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn't stay, I thought…it doesn't matter what I thought. You were right, all along you were right."

She swallowed, the words stuck in her throat – if she spoke, the spell might be broken. "I don't want you to tell me I was right."

He searched her face. "Then what can I say—"

It all broke loose inside of her; she hadn't processed it, not any of it – not him leaving, not the trauma of all the things that had happened since, but it didn't matter. She was aching to her bones, ready to drop from fatigue and covered in blood, but it didn't matter. Leon was here.

He'd come back to her.

Her swords fell to the ground – her hands had more important things to do, like tracing his face, his cheekbones. His lips were chapped against her own, and he tasted like home –not the Order, not the Fortress. Somewhere she'd never been but knew in her heart. Just home, for the first time in her life.

He leaned his forehead against hers, his breath fanning out across her cheeks, a balm for the burn of her skin.

"I missed you." His voice was raw, "I missed you more than—" A gasp stole away his breath, his face crumpling.

The blade of one of her fallen swords stuck through his middle, rammed through his back, through the joints in his armor, by a demon. It looked her in the eye as Leon fell onto her shoulder and smiled, teeth need-like and gums black.

The world was ripped inside out. Her knees buckled, and Leon came with her. Cradling his head in her hands, she leaned him back, placing her body over his own. Let the monster do what it would to her but not him, not him – she'd only just got him back.

"No. No, gods, please. Leon? Leon, look at me." She put pressure on his jaw, hanging on as tight as she was able; he couldn't leave again, he couldn't.

Slowly, his eyes came to look into hers, and Cressida sobbed. "Leon, please – talk to me. Say something. Say something, please!"

"I'm sorry," A tear slipped down his cheek, wetting her fingers. "I'm sorry I didn't stay." His breaths became erratic, chest rising and falling too fast. Gods, he was bleeding everywhere, hot and red, pooling down their legs. "I should have stayed with you. I choose you, Cressida, I'll always only ever choose you."

"Then don't go." She buried her face in his neck, pressing a dry kiss to his skin. "You'll be okay, okay? Stay with me."

Somewhere far away, she noticed the demon was hurled away from them, shrieking in pain and fury. Omaria and Greer appeared where it had stood, battered and bloodied and burnt, but alive.

"I love you." It was barely there, barely a whisper – a soft brush against her ear. Cressida would split her soul in half just to hear it again.

It was all she would get, and he was gone.

* * *

 _ **A/N:**_...

I'm a monster, I know.

Please tell me your thoughts, even if it's yelling and/or incomprehensible sobbing.


	15. Memento Mori

Above him, the sky was grey, filled with fast moving clouds. He was laying on his back, the ground soft beneath him. He stretched his fingers out, feeling the coolness of the earth, the velvety caress of a flower's petals.

The field was full of flowers – white poppies. As he brushed against them, they turned crimson, crimson like the blood running from his wounds, crimson like the blood staining his hands.

He pushed up to his knees.

This wasn't right. This place…everything was still, except for the clouds. No breeze moved the flowers on their stems, no birds sang in the distance. And from side to side, there was no horizon, only darkness, true black where there should have been something. There was nothing but him and the flowers and the sky and the field.

And the robed figure standing lengths away from him.

He stumbled to his feet, fighting to maintain balance as he strode forward. "Hello?"

The figure, like all the other things, stayed resolutely still. He struggled to cover ground, the poppies seeming to catch at his feet. A swath was cut red against the bone-white as he touched them, trailing behind him, a marked path.

The figure donned a golden mask to conceal their features. It was shaped like that of a human skull, the gilded surface catching the half-light, glinting.

"Leon," their voice was not a sound, not a tone – it was an essence, an echo. It tugged at something deep inside him, the point of a blade threatening to unravel a delicate knot. "You've arrived early."

"Where am I?"

The figure cast his head to the side, the skull mask tilting. "The where does not matter, not so much as the how. You do not remember it, but you have died."

Died? His heart would have sped up, but indeed it no longer could, not even in this strange realm.

This was Oberis then, god of the dead and the lost.

"I was supposed to be meeting with another," he continued, "but you intervened." With something that sounded like a sigh, he said, "The price for heroism is so often death." With a gaunt and sallow hand, he reached up, pulling the mask from his face. "Tell me, Leon, was it worth it?"

Oberis' eyes pierced and pulled, ebbed and flowed, crashed and caved – they were not eyes. They were pools of lifetimes, of memories. So much pain, so much suffering, most of it he could not even understand. Millennia's worth of people living and dying, and there, in the middle of it –almost meaninglessly, next to all of that – was Leon's.

He fell to his knees, gasping air he no longer needed. Would never need again.

But he left so much.

Cressida – he'd only just got back to her. All the things he never got to tell her, all the ways he never got to show her how much he loved her. And so many things he had to pay for, so many wrongs to be righted.

Was it possible to die a second death? He was drowning in regrets, in quickly realizing sorrows. "There wasn't enough time, not enough time—"

Death smiled a sad smile. "Even if you had eternity, there would not be enough time. There is never enough. This is the fate all men must suffer."

"No!" He could not accept this. He would not accept it – not now. "Please, help me – send me back." This was grasping at straws and he knew it, but the desperation raked through him like flaming embers. He would do anything, say anything – it was not dying he was afraid of. It was leaving his life behind in the state he'd left it. "There has to be some way—"

"Do you know how often I hear this?" Oberis interrupted. "No one wants to be dead, but it is not a choice."

He understood that. Dying was not something you generally came back from, but these were dark times – darks things were done, things like rising from the dead.

Oberis regarded him, took in his stony expression, and considered. "You were a loyal soldier, once, though there are nobler causes to serve than the killing of Mortabela's children." He poked a finger at Leon's chest. "But your heart has changed, hasn't it? You want to make amends."

"Yes," he nodded vehemently. Inside him, hope dared to blossom.

"Do you know what true justice is?" He didn't give him any time to ponder it, continuing, "It is the thing that comes for us all – the thing that no man can escape, not for long. It makes the last first, and the first the last. True justice, Leon, is death. Would you be strong enough to act as my agent, to bring justice to all those who have earned it? You would not have your life back –your life belongs to me, as it will forever, but you would again roam the earth. You would again see the sun, feel its warmth – hold those dear to you in your arms. Are these things not worth a little freedom?"

Freedom.

He'd never had it, not truly. No one in the Order did, but it was such a concept. Everyone, everywhere, was in chains. Everyone had a master, a leash that could be tugged. The war was a restraint. Kings were a restraint. The gods themselves, it seemed, demanded service.

Leon served. He was a soldier, not a perfect one, but it was in his blood. The choice was easy, a light price to pay when the cost was something you never had.

"I'll do it." There was no hesitation in his voice, and again, though it hurt, he looked Death in the eyes. "I'll be your agent."

Oberis reached out, irises swirling with fire. "Remember, Leon – remember that you are the one who asked for this." He placed his palm against Leon's chest and the burning began.

Leon struggled to bear it, flesh sizzling, searing – no, not his flesh: something deeper, something permanent, something irreversible and unspeakable. A mark on his soul, a stain of death to forever separate him from mortality. He would walk the earth, but he would never be a part of it.

His humanity was sundered, and that, not freedom, was the true price.

* * *

 _ **A/N:**_ Since you were all on to me like a pack of hyenas on the scent of a newborn gazelle, I decided not to make you wait. I was going to include this as a section in the next chapter (why it's so short), but I decided it stood better alone.

It was funny none of you believed I would just kill a beloved character off for shock value...and you were right. It's - surprise surprise - a plot point necessary for the resolution of the story, which you will come to see later. A lot later but still.

Also, Artesys, you get a virtual reward cookie for your correct theory. Reading through all your theories very much amused me; you really didn't want to accept Leon's death LOL.

So, just to know, do you guys prefer shorter chapters but faster updates, or lengthier chapters with longer waits between?

That's all, peace out - until next time!


	16. And You, Too, Shall Burn

In Olwen's village, they had a saying.

 _Weep not for the dead for the dead are free._

Looking around him, surrounded by fire, surrounded by so much death, that proverb brought him no comfort, nor would it bring comfort to any of them. Not when Leon's body bleed out before their eyes, not when he'd been torn from Cressida's grasp. Was that the fate of love in war? To be slaughtered, to be cast to the flames?

The Order had reached the palace, Leon, may his rest be peaceful, and Killian having beat them by minutes. Their boots could be heard pounding up the halls, their cries of war echoing between the scorched rooms. The demons cut through the princess' men. The princess herself still fought, one hand holding a gaping slash to her abdomen. The time she had left in this world was not long.

"Go." She told them, "Save yourselves from this madness."

"What about you? You will surely die if you stay."

She smiled. "I am my kingdom. If it is to perish, I perish with it."

"That's your choice," Drakon said, "But you'll not stay alone. I am Bahar's agent – they cannot truly harm me."

"There others will not be so lucky." By the look on Ailith's face, she was not pleased by Drakon's decision, but she was not going to stop him. "We have to get them out."

The Princess knocked back a pouncing demon, the creature howling in fury. "There is a passage in my brother's trophy room, behind the dragon. Be safe. Agria thanks you for your efforts here tonight, no matter how this will end."

The Order soldiers drew closer. If anyone was to leave this ballroom, they had to leave now. Olwen turned his back on the Princess, on Drakon – they had made their choices.

Greer was kneeling by Cressida, arms wrapped around the girl's shaking form. The others, they fought back the demons, a Sisyphean task. Soon, they would be overwhelmed.

"We must go." Olwen knelt by Cressida's other side, his gaze falling to Leon's lax features, his closed eyes. "There will be time to grieve elsewhere."

She could barely manage to speak between sobs. "We can't just leave him – I can't leave him."

Leon deserved so much more. Rites, the proper respects, being the very least. But Olwen would not let another fall tonight. "I know, I know, but we have no other choice. There is no other choice." Silently apologizing to her, to Leon, Olwen scooped Cressida into his arms.

She struggled, reaching for Leon. "No! I can't leave him, I can't—"

Heart full of sorrow, Olwen ignored her pleas. "If someone will lead the way."

Omaria, distress sliding from her face with remarkable control, jumped to action. The path to the doors was marked by flame and monster, but she brought them through both. It took everyone to keep the demons off their backs, Greer knocking them off with her bow from afar, Arren with magic, Killian, Matthias and Ailith slashing them when they dared get close. Olwen only prayed they wouldn't have to face the Order once on the other side.

This loss of life…it was too much. If anyone could be spared, even the worshippers of Lux, it would be something. This night was black – Olwen would never forget it. He would never forget having to pull Cressida away from her fallen love, never forget having to abandon his body there. It was wrong, another sin to add to the towering pile of them.

Bahar, forgive them all, for the deeds committed here, they were surely a crime against nature.

* * *

Matthias was numb. He'd seen things that would haunt him forever, but he was not prepared to watch one of his oldest friends die – be cut down so savagely, so quickly. There one moment, just gone the next. It wasn't fair. None of this was fair.

They fought their way out of the ballroom, trying not to concentrate on what they'd left behind. Cressida, she was…not good. She'd been hurt so many times in her relatively short life – it was as if tragedy was in her blood, cursed by the gods like a hero from legends of old. Matthias had never believed in curses, but how else could these things happen? He refused to think that this was just the way of life, a series of cataclysmic events, of dying and running away. There had to be some other way.

The doors were scorched by the fires, their once magnificent surfaces blackened and cracked, but at least they still opened. Matthias half thought they would be trapped in this tomb forever, their bodies reduced to ash, features unrecognizable. No one would come for them, if they died – no one would mourn them.

Leon would not suffer that fate. They would have a burial for him once this was all over, somewhere peaceful, even though they had no body.

Once this was all over…

Omaria turned corners sharply, her eyes cast in an unearthly violet glow. He knew this was among the Gifted's abilities. He'd read about it, but he'd never seen it performed – Aurawalking, drawing from the essence of Mortabela to guide oneself from danger. It was rare. Omaria could count herself one of the Dark Goddess' favorites.

And still, for all Mortabela's boons, she could not give someone the power to raise the dead.

The trophy room was dark, and it took Matthias' eyes a while to adjust to a space that wasn't lit up in a bright blaze. Figures towered over them, shadowy silhouettes of the stuffed game. It came as no great surprise that the king had enjoyed killing things.

"Thank the gods!" Someone burst from behind the frozen body of a poached lion, it's maw pulled into a wide snarl. It was Kamil, his expression slowly falling as he took in their collectively beaten and battered state. "I didn't know if any of you would make it out."

"Some of us didn't." Matthias' voice tasted as bitter as it sounded.

Emotions flited across Kamil's face, too fast to catch. "I tried to get back to the ballroom, but the halls were crawling with…things, formerly servants." His eyes tracked to Killian. "The Order is here, too – I've had to deal with a few of their soldiers."

"Enough talk," Greer commanded, "We have to get out – the passage."

"And go where? The Order has sacked the city – we're surrounded." He took in deep breathes, eyes briefly closing. "I can only pray Avitus found Nuri before…before things got too bad."

Killian swallowed. "He did. They were safe when Le—when we left them, they were safe."

The Gifted's face glowed with relief. Matthias shared it, thanking the gods that even one life was spared amongst all this carnage. These indeed seemed to be the end of days, but was it Lux who would wield the killing blow? The people were doing a fine job all by themselves, slaughtering each other for reasons that couldn't hold up to a gentle breeze.

Perhaps it had always been like this. Perhaps humans were monsters at their cores, monsters with an unquenchable thirst for violence.

His gaze fell to a sword that hung above the skull of what was once a great and mighty dragon. The passage should be behind it, and they could leave. They could escape this nightmare.

But go where, as Kamil said – do what?

He couldn't keep his eyes off the sword. It was double-edged, the steel of the blade casting a dark glint. It almost looked as if it ran with someone's blood, as if it had recently seen battle. At the middle of the cross guard was a sigil, emblazoned in gold, and Matthias knew he wasn't seeing things when it glimmered from the shadows, rippling with raw energy.

A moth to a flame, he drew nearer to it, ensorcelled by the soft scintillation. He longed to touch it, but for an inexplicable reason, he didn't dare. A hiss floated to his ears, followed by the lost whispering of voices, many voices, a distant chorus he couldn't understand.

"This sword," he said to the others, "I think it's enchanted."

Taking it upon herself to wedge him aside, Omaria deigned to examine the strange weapon, her own irises still lit up in a purple hue. The look in them changed to wonder, and she grinned at him in a way that could have been considered frightening.

"Matthias, I believe you just found the first key."

Greer peered over their shoulders. "But it's not a key."

"That matters not – anything can be a key. See here," she pointed a slender finger at the sigil, "It means destruction in the Ancient Tongue. The keys to destruction."

The clanking of armor, the pounding of heavy greaves off stone, became eminent in the hallway outside the trophy room. The soldiers were yelling, fighting – no doubt in combat with the creatures. It transported Matthias back to a whole other time; how mad to think the Order once made him feel safe.

Cressida, eyes-red and cheeks wet, broke from Olwen's grasp, searing him with a look that foretold of icy treatment to come. Voice a poisonous gravel rasp, she shoved through them and yanked the accursed blade from its perch on the wall, "We're being cowards, aren't we? Better get back to running."

Matthias blow out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He'd expected the sword to do something when she grabbed it, release a wave of death or turn her to stone, but no. Whatever ruinous secrets it harbored remained yet to be unlocked. He prayed it would stay that way.

Olwen came forward, pushing against the huge dragon cranium. It was the size of a person, made from solid, thick bone. As he strained against it, Matthias and Killian joined in moving it, and after a full, precious minute of heaving, it rolled aside. A draft from the darkened passage, along with a rank and mildewed aroma, hit them in the face.

As they clambered inside, Matthias felt a heaviness in every part of his body. Even if they had their differences, Leon was a true friend. He was a good person, better than Matthias, and he did not deserve to cut down on the battlefield, nor did he deserve to be abandoned there. It didn't feel like a goodbye – it felt like a betrayal.

They plodded forward in perfect darkness, no one saying a thing. There was nothing left to say. Even their words had been stolen.

Until a blaze of light lit up the area behind them. Matthias recognized the smell – oil and ozone, a scent that followed him into his dreams. After all, he'd made it. The light surged forward.

Living Fire.

"Run!"

* * *

The heat grew at their backs, the Order's cursed weapon transcending into a mighty roar. Olwen ran, his body protesting with aching muscles and clicking joints. It had been a long evening. A long life. He'd always had it in the back of his mind the holy warriors would be his death, a death that now seemed very emanant.

Over the must, over the all too familiar smell of things burning, there it was – the fresh air caused his nose to tingle, and he longed to see the end of the tunnel-like passage. That is, until the end of it became visible.

The moon hung huge and pale, dangling in the dark sky over the glittering roof of the palace – the roof they would have to leap down to. He forced himself to a stop to keep from pushing the others forward and off the edge.

"What kind of escape passage," Greer panted, face streaked with grime, "Leads to the fucking roof?"

"And they didn't think to leave us any stairs," Kamil tsked, "Not even a rope ladder."

Omaria was already shoving him before the words got out of her mouth, "You'll be fine."

Kamil's arms pinwheeled in the air before he vanished, thumping to the unforgiving surface below. Omaria was next, dropping with the grace that a little more preparation tends to lend. The others followed. Olwen, sweating from the intense heat of the inferno behind him, jumped last.

He landed on his knees, the skin there splitting and sticking to the satiny fabric of the dress trousers. Wearing a grimace, he stood, trying to gather his bearings.

They were trapped on a roof in a burning city surrounded by demons and fanatic soldiers. From this height, they could see the destruction that had been wrought. The homes, the buildings, the wall – they all glowed ember red, tinting the night with an unnatural warmth. Screams of anguish and pain and fear echoed into the air, falling on the seemingly deaf ears of the gods. Olwen almost wished that he, too, could not hear them.

Up above, the shouts of the soldiers, nearly animalistic in their braying intonations, rose above the clamor of the city's decimation. Olwen took in the faces of his companions, streaked with anguish and blood, sweat and uncertainty. The worst of it, the knife twisting his gut, was their lack of hope – they had no faith in surviving this. He ground his jaw.

They were naught but children, not so much younger than himself, but he'd lived. He'd seen the world, the best and, often the worst, of man. Apotelesma. The work of the stars – perhaps this was the reason he joined this mission. If the end of him was their survival, he would gladly offer his life.

The tension left his shoulders, the heft of the weapon still gripped in his hand a reassurance and a warning. "The only path down is to climb unless you wish to fall." He licked his lips, cracked from the heat of a desert he was never meant to be in. "I'll cover your descent."

Matthias, curls slicked to his forehead, lurched a step closer, away from the end of the stone edge. "What do you mean you'll cover our descent? You aren't…you aren't meaning to stay, Olwen – they'll kill you."

"It's his choice," Cressida said, voice cast low, strained to the point where one may not hear it, "Everyone should be allowed to make their own choices."

Omaria whirled from the edge, coils of her hair lashing. "Enough! Enough sacrifice. You gave the Order your freedom, don't allow them your life, giant. They've racked up many debts. Now, it's time for _them_ to pay." In her hand, the blade from the Seekers of Sky glinted with an igneous glow.

Kamil scrambled towards her. "Omaria, what are you doing?"

Without facing him she dragged the blade over her skin, the ruby liquid spilling in the moonlight. Her voice sounded distant, words belonging to someone else hissing, foreign, from in-between her lips, " _And they were Lux's children, bathed by fire_."

That ungodly roar of roars. Tasarr had returned.

Like a beast lurking at the edge of a dark forest, the dragon laid, waiting, outside of the city of golden palaces, watching it crumble, watching it burn. Now he opened his gnashing jaws, and released a torrent of molten hate, not quite lava and not quite flame, spewing it forth in a way that seemed to say,

 _I'll show you what it is to burn_

Crashing those wings, embers and ash in their wake, he encircled the Order's ranks from above, and no matter how sacred, no matter how divine, their great army saw the light, too, and were reduced to nothing.

Children of Lux, bathed by fire.

* * *

 _ **A/N:**_ One last upload before 2018 closes on us forever.

I hope all your Christmases were merry and bright. I hope your whole year was filled with much happiness and ass-kicking. This year was one for the record books for myself. I had many, many ups and downs, but most importantly I grew in every aspect of my life, so I guess I can call that a success. May 2019 be filled with lessons and blessings for all of us.

Also, Firealis, my poor dear - I hope everything went/goes swimmingly with your surgery. I pray your recovery period is short and you can get back to the things you love doing. Two days before Christmas, I tore the meniscus in my left knee (along with some other garbage), so I know how much this medical stuff sucks.

This is corny but I can't resist saying it - see all you lovelies next year!


	17. This is What it Makes of You

There was no such thing as safe. People who believed in it, who craved and coveted it, were weak.

It was tempting, to meander on as if nothing and no one could hurt you. Things were certain, and luck was on your side. Your side was right. Others, wrong.

Killian had hated dualities. Truly, he still did. In-between spaces, blurred lines, doubts, decisions, choices. In the Order, these things were decided for you. The Order, for every monstrous deed done, was safe. Killian was weak, and he swallowed those lies to make himself feel strong.

And now, he craved it still, and it made him want to vomit, a sense of motion sickness that was only now catching up. Things were moving too fast – had moved too fast.

Images speeding by, blurring, dizzying, scenes his mind wanted to keep skittering over like someone slipping on rocks, trying to find a purchase, trying to find some _fucking sense._ But there wasn't any sense in it, only occasional stops, punctuated by moments that felt like a knife being scraped across his skin. Those kids being slaughtered like sheep, bodies bleeding so much for creatures so small, and Leon dying like a fool in some tale of tragic lovers.

It would be easy—if anything about it were to be easy at all—to be angry with him, or her, but right now the quickest feeling to settle on was numb. Anger required energy, of which Killian had none. Gods, he wanted to sleep. He wanted everyone to shut the fuck up.

"—if we don't leave Agria now, there will be no leaving," The Gifted woman with the dark braids, Omaria, burned a track into the sand beneath her feet as she stalked to and fro, "The Clerics who survived won't leave that onslaught unanswered. This country has seen only the beginning of its hard times."

"Who can they blame?" Greer leaned forward from her place at Cressida's side, a place she'd not vacated since they'd escaped the burning city on a fucking dragon. "The Order's been decimated – the fuck was that about, anyway? Some of them could have been saved."

Omaria's dark gaze sought Killian out, raking over his blood-painted Order-issued armor. Her bottom lip curled. "Is that accusation I detect, Greer? Someone had to stop them. For a millennium they've roamed like dogs, murdering, maiming, and mistreating whomever they chose. That was karma, the least they deserved," she raised her chin, eyes ablaze, "And I would do it all again in a heartbeat."

Greer's face was carved from stone, but she said nothing.

"You didn't get them all." Killian's throat burnt like it had been scraped raw.

Her head shot in his direction, looking down down down the tip of her nose. "Pardon?"

"You didn't get them all. The Avatar, for starters – he kept the superior officers with him."

Her jaw worked. "I had supposed as much. Your Avatar must feel oh so safe in that ancient castle. Do you think Lux told him when his soldiers burnt?"

Killian picked through that. She wanted him dead; a few short days ago, he would have taken great pride in the fact. Instead he shrugged, forcing the stab of _whatever-that-was_ to roll over him like a wave –uncomfortable but hopefully temporary.

"The Avatar never cared about us." The lines of that man's face, etched like a tree or a rotten prune, still came so clearly to mind. "But he's not at the Fortress."

Across the campfire sprawled in the sand oddly close to that hulking Testroyvan giant (he'd obviously missed out on a few developments since the original group split up), Matthias perked up, ever the partaker of curiosity. "Then where is he? He's never left the Fortress, not since…well, ever."

Cressida, the ominous so-called sword of destruction seated into a scabbard at her belt, raised a dead-set gaze to meet his, the whites of her eyes streaked with angry red, but he found he couldn't quite return it. "Now there's a question. Where is _his so holy_ hiding out at these days?"

She didn't sound like herself. Cressida, but a boiled, ground down version that reminded him little of the sarcastic, careless, barely-soldier of the past.

Still sarcastic.

He swallowed, the taste of the desert, of death, unpleasant on his tongue. "He's on a voyage, a pilgrimage to foreign lands. He was going to retrieve something," he furrowed his brow, begging the words of that scroll he was not supposed to have read in the first place to spring into the wells of memory, "A religious artifact – a helmet."

"The Avatar is a spineless quim. He does not fight, what does he care about a helmet?"

Matthias scrambled forward, frighteningly close to the fire. The light from the flames threw the newly acquired, garish scar above his eye into sharp relief. It was reflected nearly pearlescent, and it looked wrong on Matthias' face, a boyish face, one that should be stuck in a book and not on the battlefield.

"It's the second key! Lux is hunting them, Lux speaks to the Avatar, the Avatar suddenly sojourns from the Fortress. It must be."

Again, those damnable keys. It seemed strange for a helmet to be a key, but not any less strange for a sword; by that logic, it seemed logical, didn't it, but so did crawling into the first bedroll he saw and not waking up for a very, very long time. Was it wrong if they just let the old man have it?

He blew air out through his nose. "Maybe, maybe not. Either way it's pretty fucking pointless. They've got a week's head start, and we don't have a ship or a specific location to sail to."

Ice does not belong in the desert, but Omaria stood as still as if it ran through her veins. A sudden inhale shattered it. "My mistress will have the answers we seek."

Off she stalked, away from the light of the fire, to, presumably, begin a pagan ritual to speak with an evil goddess. Not that he, or anyone, would be thrilled to have one-on-one time with Mortabela, Killian could have sworn he saw apprehension sweep across her features before a tightly-drawn frown could conceal it.

Those left behind lapsed into silence. It wasn't the kind where you felt comforted. It was the kind that begged someone to speak to chase it away, but no one dared do it. A good time to leave if there ever was any.

He stood, every joint and muscle making him regret it. A few steps until he could sleep, just for a little while.

"Why did you let him come back?"

Gods, he should have known. If there was a silence that shouldn't be filled, she ought to be the one to do it. If no one dared, then it had better be her. Cressida fucking Haizea.

He didn't turn back around. "If you're about to do what I think you're going to do, don't. Save it for the morning."

Like a lemming on a ledge, against all reason and rhyme, she pressed on, "Not going to take a free chance to be an asshole? That's unlike you. If you stayed with the Avatar like the Order bitch you always dreamed of being, he might still be alive. Leon considered you a friend, he would have stayed with you."

That was grief. It made people monsters. It made them blame. It made them want to hurt everyone around them. He understood that because he wanted it too.

He swallowed and faced her slowly.

"How do you figure?" His mouth tasted bitter, metal and poison, from the words he was about to say, "I'm not the one who shoved my tongue down his throat in the middle of a burning ballroom. That was reckless, that was weak—even for you."

After a lightning strike, after the thunder roars, and before the next one comes, there's a perfect stillness. Somehow, it's worse than the flash and bang of the storm – it's a moment of vicious interlude, a purgatory of suspense.

In that moment, that was her face.

And then she was moving, a snake striking across the sand. It'd been a surprisingly long time since he'd last been kicked in the balls. It was an oversight on the Order blacksmiths' part that even in full armor, you could still feel everything.

* * *

"Little raven, what wretched snare have you fallen into?"

Omaria let the sweet, cool air fill her lungs. They could say what they wanted about the Dark Goddess' realm, but it was no Agrian wasteland. The essence of this place, sharp and obscure and thrilling, washed over her, a substitute for surety.

Omaria cast her head low, with bent neck and bended knee, murky waters sopping into the hem of her skirt, ebbing against her legs. "Of what do you speak, Mistress?"

She could hear the goddess move nearer. She dared not look, dared not meet any imploring gazes, but she could feel it. The weight of that stare raised gooseflesh along her arms.

"There is something in you, child. Did you think I would not notice? I could feel it as soon as you uttered my name."

Her skirts, the purple of forgotten dreams, of bruises and the robes of kings, fluttered around Omaria.

"You are sundered from me – I should have nothing to do with you."

Gripping her fingers into fists, her nails into palms, Omaria fought against the feelings threatening to unravel her. She had not cried since her sister, since Leila. She would not cry before Mortabela.

"That's untrue, Mistress. In my heart, I still serve you."

With a violent sort of ease, Mortabela lowered herself level with Omaria. Her fingers, pale and long and deceptively kind, sought out Omaria's cheek. Her eyes were black as a world without sun, and they regarded her with such sadness. "Your heart, Omaria, your heart. Tis' no longer your own, you cannot say whom it serves, and it cannot serve two."

Her voice was very small. She loathed herself for it. "Is there nothing to be done then?"

Mortabela caressed her jaw, a smile tottering on a nebulous line between animosity and amusement. "There is nothing to be done."

Six simple words and her fate was sealed. All the world for a bargain, a bargain for a world that had only ever shown her cruelty and how to return it.

"But you were once my daughter, and I will honor your promise to that beast, though it shall breed much destruction." Like the moon, Mortabela had another face hidden away – she chose to reveal it then, and it was brutally soft. "Yours. It will be a burden you must bear."

With a sweep of her raven's wing hair, Mortabela stood. "The key you now seek is across a sea of tears, buried deep in the resting place of those who came before, a place the elven people have named Daithian rap'hiam. This journey will not be kind to you. There will be suffering, betrayal, inflicted upon you and those you have become close to. If you fail, if you break – it will be the end of all you know."

Any hint of warmth, of emotion, in the goddess' features was etched away, stone washed blank by frigid sea. "And Omaria, do not call to me again, for I will not hear your pleas."

And she was cast away, sprawling flying falling back into harsh, human consciousness.

Omaria sat on her knees in the sand, the sounds of night and the in-fighting of the group around the fire leaking into her ears, with tears glistening atop her cheeks, the evidence of losing a mother who was not her mother, a mother she never had.

But the feeling of loss doesn't care about semantics – it only knows what was there and is no longer.

* * *

He half stumbled, but did not fall, gritting his teeth against the burning and throbbing in a place that should not be experiencing either. Cressida stood over him, seething, looking as if she'd like to have another go.

It wasn't unexpected.

It was Cressida-esque, the old her, not the one who witnessed the carnage at the palace. It was a good thing – she wasn't broke yet. A broken person wouldn't still have that fire burning. A broken person wouldn't defend themselves.

"Do. Something." She spat the words like they tasted foul, and he didn't miss the way her fingers inched toward the hilt of her sword. The others had jumped up, startled, when she lashed out. Now they hovered behind her with pained, plaintiff faces.

"I'm not going to fight you." What would be the point? There was nothing to be gained by batting around someone so clearly wounded, even if the injury was on the inside.

Also, he just didn't have the energy, not physically, and damn well not mentally.

Her nostrils flared, her body nearly vibrating from such quick-sparked rage. The set of her stance, the angle of her planted heel – it was pretty certain a thrashing was on the horizon whether he was a willing participant or not – but then she stepped back. Her eyes filled up fast with tears and she whipped away, back facing him and shoulders shaking.

Greer moved forward, arms outstretched to bring her into an embrace, but Cressida lurched just out of reach. "Don't touch me. Please."

Killian hobbled to his feet. He'd been wrong earlier – if ever there was a good time to leave, it was now, let someone else be the tourniquet to that bleeding mess. As he walked – ha, walked – he tried to drown out the sounds.

The Seekers of Sky were a quiet people, strangely so, or perhaps it was only due to being imposed upon by a horde of singed, heavily armed outsiders. Who were also delivered on the wings of terror. Either way, he was glad for it. Silence, a dark tent, and something clean – or at least not blood-stained – to sleep in, that's all he asked for.

He made his way through the color-strewn, lantern-lit alleyways created by the menagerie of tents, ignoring how past them, even at night, the smoke from the inferno that used to be Guele D'or du Lion was visible. It was thicker than the dark itself, an unnatural shadow blotting out the stars over where it stretched, billowing up into the sky. He wanted to forget it. He wanted to forget ever having been there.

Forgetting was the last thing the gods had planned for him, apparently.

As he pushed open the flaps of the ruby-hued pavilion allocated to them by the Seekers of Sky, there stood the little girl from the city, the little girl with the one good eye.

The little girl that Leon saved.

Killian swallowed, cursed, and turned around. He'd sleep outside in the sand, but blast it all to Oberis, she'd seen him.

"It's him," Her voice, upbeat and chirpy, bled into his ears with the intention of creating a roost there, "It's the soldier that tried to stop the others from killing my friends."

"Killian?" It was Kamil, his tone tentative and edging. The Gifted man with the discolored patches on his face, whose name may or may not be Avitus, it was a toss, stood behind him. And in the corner was the elf.

This tent was not big enough.

"Nuri told me what you did, how you and Leon tried to protect her. I wanted to thank you, really – Nuri is all I have."

Kamil did not look comfortable with any of that little speech. Killian wanted to tell him that it was entirely unnecessary, that it was a random spot of humanity that made him attempt to save those children, that it was Leon who wanted to help Nuri, that he did not deserve any thanking of any kind, that he'd just left a grieving person in tears. But that was a lot of words, and he was too tired to speak them.

Instead, he said, rather stiffly and with an aching groin, "Yeah, well, family is important."

But then he realized, just as the words left his mouth, family was important, and Leon was the only person who ever came close to that.

Kamil opened his mouth, stopped, shut it, and opened it again. "You…you seem like you're going through something. Uh, Nuri," He took her much smaller hand in his, "Why don't we go talk to Omaria about her dragon? Avitus, shall you join us?"

Avitus spared Killian a long, pitying look and obliged, following the bother-sister duo, the flaps of the pavilion swinging and letting in smoke-scented air in their wake.

But the elf, the elf did not leave.

Killian glared at his scarred hands, blinking through his blurred vision, both eyes and ears feeling hot as embers. He could feel her gaze on him like a phantom touch.

"It's not a weakness to grieve, Killian."

She spoke his name oddly, with an accent he'd never heard or noticed before, and spoke it like it was familiar. Like they were familiar. It made him irrationally angry.

"I am not _grieving_ , and you – you don't fucking know me, so do not make the mistake of assuming your advice is warranted or even fucking wanted."

She didn't flinch, like he expected. She didn't even twitch. "Your false exterior doesn't impress me. It doesn't impress anyone. All it does is hurt you. Soldiers can cry, too."

His voice cracked and he instantly regretted speaking. "I'm not a soldier anymore. I'm not anything."

"You don't have to be anything—"

He met her gaze, trying to use it as tether so he wouldn't drown. "Then everything I did was for nothing. Every life I took, burnt, broke, and butchered means nothing. I can't erase it. I did that. That's what I am and Leon—" The name rolling off his tongue felt wrong. He didn't deserve to use it, not when he didn't save him. "He was better than me, he was the one who was supposed to change and live and start a family with fucking Cressida, but he's gone and I'm still here, and I do not deserve it."

"It's not about who deserves what. Don't erase your sins, but don't carry them. Who will that help? Not Leon, not the those you've killed, not anyone. You were taught to be a weapon, used as a weapon—"

His laugh was bitter as rancid wine, burning his throat on the way down. "But I'm not a weapon, right? You don't understand – I wanted it. I liked it. It wasn't just them, it was me."

Ailith took a few steps closer, features morphed with intense focus. "Maybe it was you, but it doesn't have to be. You cannot deny that you feel guilt when you've let it consume you. Grieve, Killian, and let the past die. You can live without dragging it behind you."

"What if I can't?

She took his hand, touch gossamer light against the raised, rough flesh there. "You have to try."

* * *

Omaria had only just pulled herself together by mere snatches and threads when Kamil found her. With him, he brought his small, rugrat sister and his…Avitus, and she died a little on the inside.

"We want to know all about your dragon," the girl immediately led with.

Omaria stilled, knuckles turning white. "I do not have a dragon." _A dragon has me._

Kamil grinned with triumph. "Oh, she surely does. It's big and terrible and we've ridden it twice now." He bopped her on the nose with the tip of his finger. "That's how we got back here to you."

Nuri rubbed her nose. "What's his name?"

Gritting her teeth, she supplied, "Tasarr the Destroyer, I'm sure you've heard tales of his horrors, else the education system in Agria is now everything I expected it would be."

Kamil scowled. Avitus, coming close to his side, gave her some serious side-eye. "I think Nuri and I are going to find something to eat. Nuri, coin for your thoughts on stew?"

"It's fine," she sang, "As long as Kamil doesn't make it."

Kamil good-naturedly rolled his eyes. "My stew kept you alive and nourished young lady."

"Please," she called over her shoulder, wild sprigs of her hair catching some non-existent desert breeze, "I'm lucky to be alive."

As Avitus' laughter faded, Kamil regarded her as one might a particularly confusing opponent and how best he might spring his attack. "Prithee, what was that about, or will I have to consult Mortabela herself and divine it out?"

"Firstly, never use 'prithee' again or I will strike you down. Secondly, it's none of your business."

His dark brows inched toward his hairline. "So your talk with her went well, then. Did you find out where in the world we'll set fire and brimstone to next?"

Omaria whirled on him. "If you want to say something about what I did to the Order, say it or be off."

He put on a diplomatic, indifferent face for what she assumed was her benefit. "It may have been a bit hasty. That was a lot of people to barbeque at once, Omaria."

"If things were reversed and they had the power, you need not even question the outcome. You saw what they were doing to innocent people. They would have killed everyone. They would have killed Nuri."

His expression darkened. "I'm not saying you shouldn't have done it, but do you even feel anything?"

That was a question she oft asked of herself, but the answer was always the same: it didn't matter. Indecision after committing the morally questionable actions was the real sin; after all, it would change nothing. "No. Now be helpful and pass the message on to the others that come dawn we ride to Makan Almad Aleazim. They need to bring anything they'd like to keep with them. We won't be back, not for a very long time."

She thought adding _possibly not ever_ would be bad for morale, even if it were honest.

He sighed deep and long, do doubt exhausted at even the thought of traveling again so soon. "Why?"

"The key is in the lands across The Sea of Tears, the lost land of the elves."

* * *

 _ **A/N:** _I almost named this chapter " _Soldiers Can Cry, Too."_ A missed opportunity, I think.

I had a really strict and wonderfully helpful outline for the whole story but I've almost entirely quit listening to it because that's the kind of author I am. Outlines are more of a suggestion.

Tell me your thoughts on this chapter. I want to know know exactly what you guys are thinking but unfortunately I don't have telepathy so I have to settle for reviews. Jk I love reviews.

Also, how is everyone doing?

I'm exhausted now. I have to get up at five a.m. what am I still doing here.

Farewell, gentle readers, and goodnight until next time.


	18. Lux's Last Stand

The ride to Makan Almad Aleazim atop the horses the Seekers of Sky were polite enough to give them was grueling, long and laborious, but Kamil wished it had never ended. He would trade the cool, salt-scented mists of the port city for the sweltering heat and lung-coating dust of the desert any day, especially today, so long as it meant not having to say goodbye to Nuri.

Again.

They stood on the docks, sailors and those who made their living at the edge of the sea scurrying around them. Kamil knelt in front of Nuri, throat tight and burning, holding her hand between his.

Her lips were puckered, a downturned pout. "Are you really going to save the world, Kamil?"

Saltwater, unrelated to the thrashing waves under the wooden slats beneath their feet, stung his eyes. "Of course, lahab saghira." He ran his thumb over her cheek. "I'd never let anything happen to a world you're in." _even though I keep leaving you, even though I've failed you so many times._

Nuri straightened her shoulders, looking like a soldier about to march off to war. She squeezed his hand, pressing something hard against his palm. "It'll be okay if you can't," her little smile wobbled, "Some things aren't supposed to be saved."

The tears came too fast for him to stop, so he brought her to him, so she couldn't see. She was too young to say things like that, too young to even think it, but it was his fault. He made her understand that the day he took away their father. That day, he ended both their childhoods.

"I love you, little sister."

Nuri peeled herself away, the strong one, always the strong one, and reached out. Pain bristled across his ear where she left a pinch.

"Ow," he rubbed his stinging lobe, trying to smile and blinking like mad, "What was that for?"

"I gave you something to cry about, so you wouldn't look weak in front of your friends."

Despite the boulder of guilt threatening to crush his heart, a genuine laugh escaped him. "Your thoughtfulness and generosity are astronomical, fair lady." He forced his not quite steady legs to work so he could stand, squeezing the solid thing Nuri left in his grasp. "I'm coming back, I promise you." He cleared his throat. "Avitus?"

The mage pushed off the post he'd been reclining against, his features striking in the midday sun. An easy smile came across his lips, "All done saying your goodbyes?"

Nuri nodded with resolution. "If we don't leave now, Kamil's going to get all weepy."

Avitus' eyes searched over Kamil's face with an interest of concern unmatching his air of nonchalance. "Gods forbid it, not weepy. Whatever will I do to console you?"

Kamil took a breath, willing a return to sweet composure. "There isn't enough gold in the world for me to repay you for keeping Nuri safe, I—"

Avitus quickly kissed him; Nuri's exaggerated gagging in the background didn't escape his notice. He feared she may fall off the dock.

Too soon, Avitus leaned away, his fingers stroking the delicate flesh at Kamil's throat. "You don't have to ever repay me, Kamil." Avitus' gaze bore into his own. "Just don't die, not so far from home."

His lips tingled with a pleasant warmth that always seemed to follow on the heels of Avitus' touch. "So, when I return, dying's alright?"

"You're right insufferable, Arazi – it's a good thing you're cute." Avitus stepped back, and Kamil felt the loss.

The mage took Nuri's hand. "We better be off, else we may not make it back in time for dinner."

Nuri was aghast. "You promised me little cakes."

"I did, didn't I? Far be it from me to deny a girl her cake." He caught Kamil's eye one last time and nodded, leading Nuri into the traffic of the dock until they were both swallowed up by it.

This might be the last time he saw either of them. He would give himself a moment, a minute's count, before he would turn around and pretend like that was okay.

Unclenching his fist, the bite of the object trapped inside of it blossoming to attention, Kamil examined what Nuri had slipped into his hand. It was a shiny redwood, carved into the intricate likeness of a ship, a ship he knew, a ship he named. A single, silent tear slipped down his cheek.

Samir carved it for him, the first, only, and last gift to his son. It was the last gift Kamil gave Nuri, and now she'd given it back, a cycle whispering, begging, to be completed.

* * *

"I am not stepping foot on a ship called _Lux's Last Stand._ " Greer knew, as she said it, that she would because what choice was there, but in no way did she have to be pleased about it.

"Fitting. Cruel irony, that's what they call it."

When the pale boy, Arren, came up beside her, Greer jumped. She'd actually forgotten about him – it was an unnervingly easy thing to do. He had to be the quietest person she had ever met. In many ways, from his appearance to his aptitude, he reminded her of a ghost.

"Fitting," she echoed as he moved on, hoisting himself onto the swinging ladder and then onto the deck of the ship, sunlight glinting off that unnaturally blond head of hair.

"Why is it we're taking this exact ship?" Matthias asked, rucksack of medical supplies they hopefully-wouldn't-but-probably-would need slung over his shoulder.

Omaria looked up from her sea charts, the pages yellow and, in some places, were made into mazes of tangled ink blots and illegible symbols. Brows furrowed, she thrust them at Matthias. "Because the captain was cheap, and his silence cheaper still—what do we care about his religious folly. Decipher that mess."

Matthias rubbed the place where she'd connected with his chest. "Bossy."

Cressida sighed, freckles smattered across her cheeks darker than the deep tan given to her by the Agrian sun, and placed her foot on the bottom rung of the ladder, "Let's just get this over with."

Greer took hold of the fraying, coarse rope, the only thing between her and the licking tides beating against the ship's hull, following Cressida up. By the time she'd reached the top, biceps burning with intensity, she remembered not so fondly all the climbing exercises that occurred during junior training in the Fortress, and exactly why she'd always hated them. Someone mercifully offered their hand and she clasped onto it, allowing herself to be pulled up over the side.

"Years later, and some things never change – you still can't climb, Greer." It was Killian. By his tone, she could tell he was joking.

"How're your bits, Killian? The last time Cress kicked you, you were in the infirmary for a week."

He gave her a half-hearted smile, a nostalgic flash of recognition. "Good times."

She wouldn't call the past they all shared _good times_ , but they weren't all bad, either. Things were simpler when they were children. If someone had told her this is where they'd all end up, she'd have never believed it, not even if they'd somehow shown her. It almost made her wish they could all go back, back before they had so much stolen from them.

But it'd started before leaving the Order; it began before them altogether. They knew loss, bereavement, since the day they were born first, since the day their families decided it wasn't worth it to fight – that _they_ weren't worth fighting for – and they were given away, like an old blanket or a spare part.

So they'd made a little family of their own, and now, it felt like that was being taken too.

"Well, well, well, it looks like all our lovely lil' landlubbers have finally lected' to join us." An old, round man, gray hair sticking out around the crown of his balding head, strutted onto deck. "Sorry about the climb, kids – gangplank's prolly about here somewhere, if you looked real hard. Name's Colbert Coleborn, Captain of _Lux's Last Stand_ , the beauty you be aboard." He made a hasty sign to the gods, "May the goddess bless it," he looked off to the side, presumably into the horizon, "And this curse'd voyage…"

Greer wanted to groan at his name alone.

"As paying guests, we've got two cabins for ya," he held up a stubby thumb, "First one's mine, however. Second cabin's for the ladies, gents sleep with the crew so I hope you like the crew. They don't bite, not all of em,' but don't come cryin' to me if you lose a belonging or two. Free meal, once a day, dinner time – if you miss it, you've got an empty belly and nothin' to do about it." He took a pause, the leathery skin of his forehead crinkling, "That's about all, I suspect. If issues rise, come to me or my quartermaster, Aisha Batal. If it's personal or important, go to Aisha. And last thing's last, stay the hell outta the way and have a very pleasant voyage."

He leaned forward at face-planting speed, stooping into a hunched bow that would please no king. With a cheeky wink, he turned on his heel and ambled up the short steps leading to the helm. Already there was a tall woman with skin a few shades darker than Kamil's, hair wrapped about with a deep red sash. From this distance, the exact nature of the tattoos roping across her bare shoulders and arms couldn't quite be discerned, but they appeared to be the coils of a giant snake. Or a terrible sea creature. This woman, Greer assumed, was Aisha Batal.

The rest of the crew weren't any less eclectic.

Matthias gripped the straps of his bag so tightly his knuckles were turning white. "They look rather like pirates, don't they?"

From his perch on a well-worn railing Kamil, with red-rimmed eyes and windswept hair, forced a rueful smile. "Trust me, these men are not pirates. Pirates are much, much worse. You'll know when they're coming from the smell alone."

Olwen nodded. "I have heard tales of captured Testroyvi. These are not tales with happy endings."

As the crew ran about with mad vigor and they set sail out to sea, Greer couldn't keep her eyes off the distant line where the ocean rose up to meet the sky. It was endless, a wall amassed of water, great enough to rival any Agrian architects and Ethrian masons could ever hope to build. It was beautiful and terrifying; her mind scrabbled at what unknown horrors such depth might hold.

There were certainly enough foreboding stories to spark the imagination, pirates being the threat most based on reality. It was Agrian's eastern coast—the waters that lay northernmost to Makan Almad Aleazim's port were known to be rife with them. According to Matthias, Omaria's chart marked the routes most plagued with danger; together, he and the navigator would make their best attempts to avoid the worst of it. But nothing was ever certain. The port city had been raided before, its denizens sometimes snatched from the shores as if by a phantom or the sea itself.

Superstition was, at large, just that, but it was seeded with snatches of truth, more than enough to make her weary of the journey that lay ahead.

Night fell in increments at sea, each one seemingly at competition to outdo the last by bleeding marvelous reds and golds and oranges across the waves. And when the moon rose, it did so with unobscured triumph, a glowing orb more effulgent than any Gifted's magic ball. Which was unfortunate, as she would much rather stare at its luminous face than the congealing mess at the bottom of the sick bucket.

"Is this your first time at sea?" Ailith, bless her heart, asked while holding back the tangled horde of Greer's hair.

The only thing weaker than her voice was her stomach. "What gave it away?"

They were in the women's cabin. The finer details of the place had more or less escaped her notice, as when they entered it her vison was doing this strange thing where she saw not only one rendition of every image, not two, but many swirling blurs of it all. It was probably what it was like to be on mushrooms; later, when her gut was finished up with flushing out everything she'd ever consumed, she'd have to ask Olwen about it.

Cressida dabbed a damp rag across her forehead. "Isn't there something you can give her?"

"Perhaps—chewing peppermint leaves would help the nausea pass. I'll check in the galley to see if they have any in the stores. Omaria, will you hold Greer's hair, in case she becomes sick again?"

Butterflies burst into Greer's stomach, and they had little to do with her seasickness. Okay, maybe a little to do with it, but the majority could be attributed to the Gifted woman coming toward her.

"Of course," she replied, voice silky as the skin of her hands when they brushed the back of Greer's clammy neck. Her hold was gentle. "Is this okay?" she asked lightly, fingers combing through the interwoven strands, parting them with delicate ease.

It was more than okay. It was… nice. It was completely at odds with Greer's view of her person.

"Uh-huh," she could barely say before retching yet again. Real attractive.

Cressida winced, nose wrinkled. "Let's hope they have mint. Lots of mint."

* * *

"They have nothing in here," Kamil called, voice garbled by the fact he was at the bottom of a barrel. That wasn't a clever metaphor for where he was in life, or emotionally—he was literally scrounging around a barrel, looking for biscuits.

Sure, Captain Coleborn said one free meal a day, but he said nothing about helping yourself. Kamil was sad, and when he was sad, he wanted to nibble. So sue him.

"This is pointless," Killian complained from his post as sentry by the door, "And stupid. You're stupid."

Kamil popped up from the barrel, the wooden rim coming up to his waist. It was a big-ass barrel. "Would a stupid person have these?" He threw a biscuit at Killian's head.

Killian threw it back, much harder, and Kamil caught it, wagging a finger. "Waste not, want not, young man." He hiked up a leg over the side of the barrel and then the other, sliding out. There was a tearing noise. He made a face, "Oh, dear."

"Was that your pants?"

"It'd better be my pants or it's worse than I thought." He shifted, pulled, gave up. "I'm stuck."

"How can you be stuck? It's an open barrel."

"Well, I am." He tugged on the fabric of his trousers to no avail. "You have to help me."

Killian held up his palms and took a step back. "I'm not helping you. You're on your own here, buddy."

"Fine. I guess I'll just have to tell the good captain or his attractive yet strangely intimidating quartermaster who my accomplice was when I'm found, inevitably, in such a compromising situation. I wonder if they'll make us walk the plank, or just tie us to the mast for the remainder of the trip," he frowned in contemplation, "There's always the pillory…"

Killian's face skirted through ten different kinds of disgust, nine more than he'd known existed. "Alright, alright."

He trudged over with all that soldierly duty the Order worked so hard to instill, took stock of the situation, and rolled his eyes. "You're on a nail. I'm just gonna…yeah."

"Feel free to use your hands," Kamil chirped.

Killian glared daggers up at him, "Why don't you eat your fucking biscuit and be quiet?"

He raised his eyebrows. "I've used lots of things as a gag, never a biscuit, though. Has anyone ever told you you're actually kind of pretty?"

"Kamil, I swear to—"

The door to the galley opened, moonlight streaming into the dingy place and illuminating dust particles floating in the air. Kamil squinted.

"Oh, it's your elf friend."

Killian stood so fast they nearly bumped noses, and Kamil squawked in laughter, the force of it freeing him from that inconvenient nail.

"Don't mind us," Kamil frowned at the newly torn hole in the fabric of his trousers, poking a finger through it, "Killian was just helping me with a problem, in my pants."

Ailith was amused, Killian was not.

"He was stuck on a nail," he said, quietly. Kamil had never seen someone look so embarrassed and murderous at the same time. Quick to change the subject, he asked, "What are you doing down here?"

"Looking for mint," she hummed, "Your friend, Greer, hasn't taken kindly to the sea."

"Well," Kamil kicked at the barrel that tried to trap him, "It's not in any of these. Biscuit?" He knocked it against the rim, "They're pretty hard but hey, one'll last you a few days."

She grimaced. "This time, I'll have to pass." She scanned the galley, gaze going toward sacks stacked on the far wall.

"I'll help you look," Kilian offered, composure returning as the red atop his cheeks left.

Kamil thought he'd excuse himself—there was obviously a little something something going on between the pair. He approved. Someone may as well be getting a little action on this godsforsaken odyssey. Besides, anything to help that boy be… less like himself.

"Well," he strode through the doorway, leaning back around it to wink and bestow his farewells, "You kids have fun. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

In response, he was met with matching blank stares, and Kamil laughed, trotting off towards the main deck. Serious people really were so fun to mess with. After all the recent doom and gloom, he was essentially doing Naltia's work, lightening hearts and bringing souls together. That's what he'd like to think, anyway.

Really, it was much less altruistic than that.

He wanted to forget, he wanted to be distracted. Anything to keep his mind from drifting back to the island of self-pity and despair. They were all sailing off to their deaths and no one was admitting it. Neither was he, though. They were a bunch of liars, telling themselves they were heroes, off to save the day. They weren't heroes.

They were thieves and murders and children who grew up too fast. They were soldiers and orphans and castaways. They were all those things plus them having a wee-sized lifespan, but he was pretty certain savior wasn't among those accolades. Nuri may be better off without him. Kamil didn't know much about Avitus, but he knew he had money and a good heart, both qualities of which he did not personally possess.

Disheartened again, and having failed at the one task he'd set for himself—not bloody thinking about bleak things—Kamil decided he needed a drink. He needed several.

"To Lux!" The crew cheered, "And the inescapable probability of all our deaths!" They still cheered, albeit a little more uncertainly.

Kamil smiled and downed the mysteriously gray-tinged liquid in his tankard. It tasted like how the dour matron of a failing orphanage looked, if that was at all possible. Only much stronger. And drinkable.

On second thought, anything was drinkable if you believed in yourself—

"Why," There was a steel grip on his shoulder, suddenly, "Are you wallowing?"

It was Omaria. She leveled the scruffy looking gentleman that was sitting next to him with a look that spoke of many, many dark things until understanding blossomed and he moved, allowing her to sit there instead.

Kamil shrugged happily. "I'm not wallowing, I'm drinking."

She raised an unimpressed brow. "You're wallowing in drink. Why?"

"Why," he tipped his other, grayer drink at her, "Not?"

"It's been a week. That's long enough to let yourself indulge."

He stared into the bottom of his cup, one eye widened, the other closed. "It has? The time flies so fast when you're hurtling towards annihilation."

It was her turn to shrug. "You didn't have to come."

The grin he gave her was achingly roguish. He didn't know how she resisted, truly. "And let you have all the fun?" It slipped into a pout. "You are having all the fun, though, you and Killian. Got yourselves smexy new girlfriends and suddenly the end of the world is a cakewalk," he hiccupped, "Do you think they have cake?"

She blinked at him. "What's wrong with you? Of course they don't have cake." She sniffed, "And she's not my girlfriend."

He became very serious. "Do you need tips on wooing? I'm an expert wooer, ask anyone."

"From you?" Omaria threw her head back and laughed. When she recovered, and only then, was she able to smirk at him, mischief in those dark eyes, "I've never had a dissatisfied customer."

"If they had to pay for it they better not be leaving dissatisfied."

He winced when her jabby little elbow met his side. "Ouch. Sorry, I'm sure the ladies are falling at your feet, but, if that is the case," he smiled at her with no small amount of cattiness, "Where's Greer?"

Omaria titled her head towards the door, a look on her face Kamil might dare, maybe, to call smitten, "Right there."

* * *

It was a den of vice. She thought back to Matthias' earlier question, looking about at all the drinking, the yapping, the reveling—and was that Arren on a table?—the crew could pass for pirates. There were even two men fighting in the back corner, tattoos and scars shown off on their shirtless, hairy torsos as they stumbled and took drunken punches at each other. She shuddered.

"Greer! Over here." It was Kamil, casting winks, waves, and wild gestures her way. Beside him, Omaria sat, looking every inch a dangerous beauty, someone entirely unfazed by the foolery around her yet seeming completely removed from it.

She cast Greer a sultry smile as she sat down at their table, "I'm so glad you decided to join us."

Kamil leaned toward her, "She really is, don't let that gorgeous poker face fool you."

Omaria shot him a warning glare, and the other Gifted raised his hands in peace. "Right, got it—going into wingman mode. Excuse me, ladies, I'll go get us some drinks. All the barkeep's teeth are black, wouldn't want to subject you to that," he stood up, only wavering slightly, "Also, don't touch the table too much. It's sticky," and he ambled off, shoving his way and being shoved to the makeshift bar.

"Wow," Greer began, "He's—"

"A warbling bullshiter?"

She snorted. "I was going to say an eccentric, but you know him better than I do."

Omaria pushed her hair over her shoulder, leaning closer so she wouldn't have to yell over the charming ambiance. "I've almost killed him several times now, but I believe he's grown on me, like fungus, or a tumor. You're feeling better, I see."

Greer nodded, making sure to keep her elbows off the table's top. It did seem to be covered in a strangely tacky substance. "Much. Ailith whipped up something out of nothing with what she found in the kitchen," she grimaced, "Galley, sorry—Matthias would fail me for the inaccuracy."

She titled her head. "You and your friends are such a cute group. So loyal to one another. Where's Cressida this evening?"

A tide of guilt surged through her.

Cressida was back in their cabin, presumably sleeping, and she was all alone. Ailith was… somewhere, she and Omaria were here. The girl wore her grief like armor, and Greer didn't know how to coax her to take it off. Abandoning ship—ha—and going on a date probably wasn't helping, though.

Was it a date?

Greer cleared her throat. "She stayed in. She's still not feeling well, not since Agria; well, you know."

Omaria nodded sagely before shimmying a tad nearer. "Have you and her ever…"

She blinked, waiting for the other woman to offer a follow-up explanation.

"Were you ever romantic at all?"

If Greer had a drink, she probably would have spat it out. Instead, she lapsed into a coughing fit. Omaria watched her, amused. "What, no. Of course not. I mean, no." She sought out her gaze, cheeks ablaze. "I did…when we were kids, we kissed, like once, but it was just kid stuff. Innocent."

"But you did like her, didn't you?"

Greer suddenly found every pirate-esque crewmember in the place very interesting to look at. "I did, I did, but more than anything, I wanted a friend. Cressida was always there for me—we were always there for each other, all of us, actually."

Beneath the table, Omaria's hand took Greer's own, squeezing gently, reassuringly. "And what about now?"

She returned her gaze, taking in the other woman's soft eyes, her slightly parted lips, her hungry expression. Greer swallowed. "What about now?"

"Do you still have feelings for her?"

That was the question, wasn't it? Greer considered the situation. They were in the underbelly of a questionable ship surrounded by questionable people on a quest that would probably get them all killed, but Omaria's hand was soft. The way she was looking at her—

Greer had decided.

She wouldn't choose to be with anyone else. She didn't have feelings for anyone else, not that it wouldn't change or that it would be this way forever, but right now, she was content. She wouldn't choose to be anywhere else, either.

Well, maybe not quite here…

She ran her thumb in circles on the back of Omaria's hand. "Do you want to get out of here?"

Omaria's lips pulled into a slow, beatific smile. "I thought you'd never ask."

Her lips were also soft. As a matter of fact, from all the places that Greer had touched, Omaria didn't have any skin that wasn't cruelly caress-able. It wasn't fair, too many articles of clothing between them, too many steps between here and any empty room. The night was lit softly by a waning moon, and the deck was deserted, moisture hanging in the air as a thick fog rolled in around them. It was romantic, kind of, and Greer would settle for it as she leaned into Omaria, Omaria leaning back on the railing.

She separated their lips, briefly, hands clasped on either side of Greer's jaw. "If you knock me over, I'm electrocuting you again."

Greer laughed, moving her hands down Omaria's sides and her mouth down her neck. Where it connected to her shoulder, she left the softest bite. "Cross my heart, that's the last thing—"

Omaria's breath was warm at her ear. "Last thing what?"

She would have answered—she would have loved nothing more than to get back to it—but in the not so distant distance, a pinprick of red light shone through the white of the fog. And it was coming closer.

"Do you see that?"

Omaria's eyes scanned her face in alarm before she tugged out of Greer's arms, turning toward the strange light in the dark. Or lights in the dark.

"They're lanterns."

Burning, blood-red lanterns, coming out of the dark.

Omaria griped her wrist, nails digging in. "Go. Tell the others—"

There was the sound of something firing, a whoosh and a hit and a thud. And then there were more and more of them. One such projectile crashed onto the railing right next to them, skidding down it until it caught with a _chink_. It was a clawed hook.

 _Lux's Last Stand_ went sideways, and that's when it started. The screaming. Not sounds of pain or anguish, but… demons. Screeches and wails chilling enough to rival those of the sundered king back at the palace in Agria.

The next thing that came out of the fog was a ship, if it could even be called a ship. It was a behemoth, dark and glistening with a red glow and somehow—hungry. It rose over them like it intended to just keep going, crushing their much smaller vessel and forcing them under. But it didn't.

The first of the demons boarded, swung over the gaping, watery divide like gravity were nothing more than a guideline and not a law. Behind her, the crew of _Lux's Last Stand_ had managed to rouse themselves from their drinking, and they were running around, trying to follow Coleborn's hastily barked orders.

Greer shook herself into action. She had to get her bow. She had to get Cressida.

Omaria nodded like she knew her thoughts. "Go. Be careful."

She took off at a sprint, ignoring the red light, the pain in her side, the clashing and clanging of steel on steel, a sound she'd hoped she would not have to hear again so soon. Not after the palace.

Up ahead, lit by a lantern that was the right color, Greer could see the cabin door. Behind it was her weapon, and her best friend.

She didn't make it to either.

* * *

 _ **A/N:**_ _lahab saghira_ ,لهب صغيرة in Arabic, means _"little flame,"_ for you curious souls.

I hope you enjoyed that! I know I did. A little bit of angst, little bit fluff, humor, action, romance; what's a genre, anyway?

It was longer cause' I was apologizing...

Anyway, as always, unload your thoughts and concerns on me - I live to hear them!


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